Big Boy’s Wading Pool
by Odin Roark

How brief…

A boy’s guppy-life infancy,
paddling carefree in protected wading pools,
unaware how quickly the waters change,
how squirt guns and snorkels rapidly vanish
as teen minds splash aimlessly,
rubbernecking tribal ink on bikini buttocks,
rolling pretend-not-to-see eyes into delirium,
as hormones rage in tow, appendages erect to the ready,
and snow cones melt innocently.

How long…

A man’s growing life of certainty,
battling tides in unprotected waters,
made aware that waves rapidly accumulate,
that defending is the norm,
that dozing on lawn chairs in afternoon sun
is but momentary respite,
that what once was eye candy for awakenings,
is now but hidden child bearing stomachs stretched,
along with once pubescent bottoms
now laden with aging’s cellulite battle scars.

How permanent…

A man’s denial of drought’s reality,
with Wall Street Journals propped on languishing bellies,
SPF 50 at the ready, gin and tonic on standby,
every big boy’s wading pool eventually reflects back
and smiles at daydreams now withered and retired,
asking only that we accept today as yesterday’s tomorrow.

How patient life’s destiny.