pack mule
grasping up the florescent goggles,
the lime-violet dive sticks
and the castaway towel
adorned with Angry Birds.
Popping the stubborn clip
to let down
the goliath umbrella --
cerulean and sun-stained
ivory stripes --
careful not to pinch a finger.
Children cranky,
wife exhausted
with Southern Living.
Close now by the horizon,
Apollo dips behind a
big Bradford Pear,
and its shadow casts
on the concrete
trail of damp footprints
that fade away toward the
chain link gate.
A wayward pink tee shirt
skitters across the cement --
stubbed toe, expletive stifled.
And father
shakes out the Super Soaker
like an Easter Sunday bishop,
slinging holy water
on a row
of slightly askew
but penitent
chaise lounges.
-- Michael McIntyre
