The Wading Pool
The toddlers in their tadpole bodies,
with their squirt guns and snorkels,
their beautiful mommies and inflatable whales,
are still too young to understand
that this is as good as it gets.
Soon they must leave the wading pool
and stand all day at the concession stand
with their hormones and snow cones,
their soul patches and tribal tattoos,
pretending not to notice how beautiful they are,
until they simply can’t stand it
and before you know it
they’re lined up on lawn chairs,
dozing in the noonday sun
with their stretch marks and beer bellies,
their Wall Street Journals and SPF 50.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2014 by George Bilgere from his most recent book of poems, Imperial, (Univ. of Pittsburgh Press, 2014). Poem reprinted by permission of George Bilgere and the publisher.