You came in from the
pool. Bathing suit dripping on
our cousin's hardwood floor.

Shivering like blankets
of snow despite the inferno of
clouds and the red thermometer.

You looked around the silent
living room-- museum of lazy figurines,
magistrates of shadow-- for a towel.

I remember your orange bathing suit
like a reflection on the oaken
interior of my eight-year-old eyes.

"Forget it," you cried, and sat
Indian-style on the oriental rug,
leaving the door ajar, letting the warm

air in, the cat out, and the summer free
to sit in your wet hair and smell the chlorine
while you watched Tom & Jerry:

silverware, sledge hammer, throbbing toe.
You laughed like the verses of a carefree poem:
light, genial, and in no demand of an epiphany.

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