Municipal Pool - Aug 7 2026

 

Municipal Pool

Aug 7 2026

In the municipal pool

almost all is bared.

Even the one-piece with the ruffled skirt

the old lady wears

shows more of her than anyone’s seen

since her husband left

for someone younger.

Yet almost no one cares;

there’s no self-consciousness 

when everyone’s flaws

are on public display.

Of course, the adolescent boys still strut and flex

pull in their stomachs

and act like they don’t care,

despite how unsure

they really feel.

The teenaged girls

in skimpy bikinis they’re too young to wear

have no idea

this is the best they’ll ever look.

They cluster together

like gazelle on the Serengeti

as if numbers will protect them,

giggling girlishly

and flirting with the boys.

There are middle aged men

who seem perfectly content

with sagging bellies and body hair

sprouting sporadically

from pallid skin;

old geezers

with twiggy arms and veiny legs

sporting Speedos

that have seen better days;

and the aquarobics ladies

who try hard to stay fit,

but would much prefer lunch with the girls

and a second glass of wine.

And kids of all ages

who are mercifully oblivious

as to how they appear,

cannonballing giddily

and running on the deck

despite the lifeguards’ loud slow downs.

The municipal pool

is the great equalizer.

We’re all average 

or think we are,

all judging ourselves

but not very hard,

and all too preoccupied 

with having fun

to care that we aren’t body builders

or movie stars.

I slip into the pool

to a shock of cool

and too much chlorine,

goggles fogging over

and baggy suit

billowing up around my legs.

Start counting lengths

up and down the lane.

All by myself

in the welcome quiet

of this water world,

where every difference 

looks pretty much the same.

Here’s a note that accompanied the first draft when I shared it with a friend, who also happens to be a much better swimmer than me.

I was in the pool yesterday (Thursday) — fantastic weather for a lake swim, but lousy timing for a pre-booked appointment, and I had no choice but to be in town.

The same damn thing is happening: in the lake, my stroke feels powerful, fluid, and painless, as well as tireless; but then I get in a lane with the finger-breaking buoy lines and head-bashing bulkheads, and I must tense up or somehow alter my stroke so I feel slow and my shoulder immediately starts to hurt. You ever hear of anything like this in anyone else?!!

Anyway, it was busy there, with more than the usual assortment of ages and body types. (Including this “old geezer”!) So at least I got this poem out of it!   . . . No title as yet. Suggestions welcome.