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They have a pool now, the people
in that boxy house I pass on my way
to town, above ground but pretty
big. I can almost hear them
say the words A pool! as in a shimmering
dream, and then as a serious fact of life
with duties and obligations, such as having a lot
of company, whose cars are often in the yard.
I see the painted metal glare, a tall crystal
splash—wet kids tearing around the lawn,
and big pale daddies drinking beer,
the moms presumably on deck talking
a tan streak behind the bamboo screen.
Sometimes late at night,
or when the air is cold, or when no one
is at home, I drive by and stealthily bless
the vacant pool. It’s one of several jobs
I have, pool-blessing. It pays
even less than writing poems,
with about the same prestige, but
I can choose my own hours and I also
do trampolines.