Maybe it’s for exercise, sure,
or because I try to get in the pool
as often as possible on

summer evenings because…
well, it’s summer, and the pool,
sunshine-heated perfectly on

these too hot days, sparkles
seductively as I walk by…
you know you want to…

Perhaps, on the day I turn 66,
I will do my old synchro workout
because young women in Paris

will soon compete in what’s
now called artistic swimming—
as I breast stroke my way down

the pool, then scull a length
on my back before reaching my
arms overhead, torpedo sculling

feet forward, then sitting upright,
legs egg-beatering—in memory
of all those hours in the water.

Or maybe, as I pull on my suit
over this older, lumpy-middled body,
I invoke the names of long-gone

pool gods and goddesses who
carved through water like ships
under full steam (bless you,

Esther Williams), set one foot
into shimmering turquoise,
then the other foot,

just because I still can.