The Next Thing Always Belongs

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.