Swimming in the middle of Smith Mountain Lake,
Boat motors hum in the distance.
My trunks slip away as I dive down into the murky green.
The bottom is two-hundred fifty feet below me, too deep to fetch.
The fish swimming around me feel like a million cameras,
Exposing me down to the bone.
Who knew lake water could feel so transparent?
I recall a mother telling her boy,
“Remember to tie your trunks tight!”
I want to have heeded that advice for myself.
I wish I was not so easily judged by the very fabric of nature.
The birds overhead squawk in laughter
As if I am in a jar of pickled herring,
Still alive attempting to free my homies.
I’d choose gingivitis over this embarrassment.
I don’t really mind if anyone notices,
What’s the worst that could happen?
Perhaps I can find a discarded hubcap,
like Uncle Jim always had too many of,
To cover myself and turn my face back from a tomato to a peach.
I can’t stop spinning to catch the eyes on onlookers,
But my ass is safe from sight every time.
Birds, fish, boats
Acted as if I was Johnny Depp on a nude beach.
The Sun begins to boil my shoulders and cheeks.
Now throw me some new trunks.