Finding ships

Find a submarine, leave a mark.

Find a carrier, make me laugh.

The pieces are slightly damp

like our swim towels, reminding us

of the sea that spawned the game

of battling ships. Uncover the box after lunch,

when we’re all bunched around the picnic

table like curtains pulled back to let in

the beams of mid afternoon. Share your carrot sticks

and I’ll give you my milk carton—we sink

boats with gusto, like immortal pirates

resurrecting ships from a plastic grave.

Every part of me aches with lessons

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learned in how to stay afloat in the deep

blue of the community pool. Every move I make

is practiced, intentional—I knew I’d find your ship!

And when my own vessels eat the red, I salute them like a captain

before the board is reset and we all set sail once more.

Swing society

Step up, turn and slide,

kick your legs like astronauts do

in weight of lighter gravity,

and swing. Face captured

by the clinging clouds, then facing

the sand sprinkled like chef salt.

Pump your legs like pistons, a machine

chasing behind the natural

way of things. Grab a steed and ride

with me, into the blue like silver-finned fish,

conversations that keep time

with the steady pump of the thick,

linked chains, a beating heart.

My friends ride alongside me,

churning up wind like cowboys

churn up dust. And the new kids?

They gallop too, a confident rhythm

we all swing to, trying to touch the skies.