She is lounging on a pool float
but not swimming.
no one has used that long-handled net scoop
and the dead bugs are floating
like show girls in leotards
fallen from their trapeze,
now suspended by a safety net of green murk.
she skims her fingers across the surface
and the algae hangs there
like a lover’s hair,
slowly slides off and flies
like a private jet
as she hurtles it at the wall of the courtyard.
it splats. stays stuck to the stucco.
no one joins her pool party.
they smile sweetly from the sides.
check their watches. make excuses:
the kids. a meeting. forgot a suit.
I have an extra Speedo, she offers,
the cabana boy will fetch it for you.
I’m in the weeds at work, he says,
straightening his tie nervously,
then waves a sheepish goodbye and hurries away.
She flings a clump if slimy algae
at the back of his head
like a grenade.
she misses. oh well.
she adjusts her straw hat and sunglasses.
sips her iced tea. points her pedicured toes
and dips them gingerly into the muck.
she prepares for a refreshing plunge
by closing her eyes. it makes all the difference
to close her eyes.
Renee Podunovich's writing has been described as merging science, nature, and soul. She explores human experience in relation to a living planet. Renee lives off the grid in southwest Colorado in an “Earthship” home. Her most recent publications include Mississippi Review, Boston Literary Magazine, White Whale Review, The View From Here, RATTLE and SW Colorado Arts Perspective. Her book of poems “If There Is a Center No One Knows Where It Begins” (Art Juice Press) is available online. Find her here.