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An intermittent shish from the hallway
Curves Saturday's sleep

It's the slam spray of a thick 2-ton motorboat
Plunging across heavy seas
Rushing before a storm

I cling to the cold scrawny railing at the fore
The boat lurches up and hangs, suspended for a—
Then pit drop stomach


We beat the rain
We coast into a wide harbor of calm
I turn to speak to the captain but the motor's way too loud
He waves from the wheel

There are hundreds of white people here
Bones sticking up from deep green water
They circle subsurface springs
That make watery warts on the harbor's face

We're given a mean look from the swimmers
Whose racism becomes apparent
I want to turn the boat around and leave
Still, the storm...

The outcome of this scenario becomes predictable
Like a chess game or a sitcom
I lose interest, gain buoyancy
Rise back to my bed, the Saturday sunlight
And silence

A poorly inflated kiddy pool
Folded in half
Waits in my hallway maternally
Dragged here of its own accord

I ignore it but it will wait for me
Wait until I have to get up and pee
Tangle my ankles
And insist

It was me! Not the boat! Not the water!
Me, dragging my poor plastic across your hardwood floors.
You have to help me.
I'm losing air.

It drags towards me with a definite shish
It drags again, a definite shish.

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