Strangers confirm it. They float up to me
and say, “Isn’t it perfect? I mean as long
as you like water … .” then drift away.
I can’t deny it; I like water. My sons and I
watch three teenagers, two girls, one boy,
argue whether the water is too cold, as we
float in front of them, supine in water as hot
as soup, not even laughing as the girls squeal
after dipping their toes in, “You go! we’ll stay here,”
after all the beach is not an imperative … .

Jarret is throwing a Frisbee and I motion to him
to stop, the elderly woman floats between us,
looks at me and says, “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What?” I ask, “Frisbees, hand signals, or children?”
“The water,” she replies and laughs at me,
her husband bounces beside her, his grin
crinkles his white goatee, his baseball cap reads
“Bob.” Both drift slowly, silently away, borne
by the waves. A flying Frisbee interrupts
my meditation, knocks me supine, once again;
this time the water cold, but refreshing.

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