The Whistle, My Crown

January 8, 2012
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The sun beats down
Against my neck
No umbrella or hat
Can truly protect
My evolving dark skin
From the glistening glare
Or the deep color from leaving
My sun-bleached hair
Sweat sticks to my back
Gluing me to the chair
I wish just for a drop
Of the water, so rare
Below my great tower
Of deep concentration
Lies a clear, deep blue pool
With slight swells of anticipation
The crystalline surface
Calls out my name
We haven’t embraced
Since the first patron came
So sure to arrive
As the clock struck nine
With towels in hand
On their lips, a long whine
Of the heat, the harsh drought,
Of their misbehaved child
Of the trash cans where
Uneaten hot dogs have piled
They enter my kingdom
With ungrateful frowns
And ignore each loud squeal
From the whistle, my crown

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