Human beings, thought the swimmer,
In general and in particular are more fun
To ponder and to dissect than to interact
With, except, perhaps, when they’re allowing
Me to talk to them about themselves, and
My self, and the others. Thinking so
On a long, slow swim across the green
Mouth of the clean, invisibly deep bay,
The swimmer reached back to the beach
Bestrewn with fellow humans this evening,
The small boys in black wet suits skipping stones,
The visitor with her coiled skein of oxygen
And a glass of red wine in her chair, the noisy
Brother of the quiet, older sister, self-possessed,
Talking softly and comfortably to her mother
In a way few teenaged daughters ever do,
The grown men goofing with a waterproof
Phone, taking pictures of each other as heads
Suspended like painted balloons on the waves.
The swimmer’s daughter once plotted, playfully,
To sink the head of a store-window mannequin
Staring up to the surface from down in the weedy
Rocks, mainly to delight herself with imagining
The horrified reactions of people she knew.
Humans, thought the swimmer, smiling, drying
Off on a log in late sun. The whole sick crew.
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