16 August 2020

By Philip Kuepper

There lay, in a smile,
the little town crescenting
the bay of everchanging
shades of blue, boys
dove into to cool
off in the hot
summer, too hot
to stay out in
for long (stretches of time),
their tan skin smooth
against the smooth
white yachts they dove near,
then surfaced, pulling off over their heads
the blue garment of water.

They attained shade,
where they lay glowing, dimly,
watching the calliope-like
party playing out on the deck
of the yacht nearest to where
they had been diving.  I say
calliope-like, as the party goers
were rowers, tall, lithe,
piping with energy, vibrant
men, and women, reveling in
the completion of races, well-rowed,

young persons of summers,
of sun, high, hot,
offspring of Sol, of Ra.
They radiated healthy genes,
which they wore jeaned,
naturally, casually,
jeans in shades of blue, like the bay.
All appeared thematically correct,
even the shade, tinged blue,
in which the boys lay glowing.

I will not limn
the storm that threatened,
far out, from the too
paradisiacal harbor.  I will let
the party play out.  I will let
the calliope of laughter and talk
evolve, the boys
saunter off to buy iced drinks.
I will let the bubble of the afternoon
float in the air, until it begins
to reflect the myriad
shades of the sun beginning
to set, bleeding the blue
sea psychedelic.  I will
depart before it bursts.

(5 August 2020)