sink or swim, A battle

 

Submerge sorrows

in even a shallow pool of cabernet

and they will wait.

They will wallow, wade,

but not sink.

 

Or,

perhaps they sink,

starved as a child

averted from his mother’s eyes

while at the local swimming pool,

his failed back flip

neglected for Saturday prattle

between adult swims.

 

Ignore sorrows

for even a shallow pool of cabernet,

and they return wrinkled, ruddy.

They resent time spent in the drink,

and come up swinging.

 

Or,

perhaps they don’t swing,

exposed by a draining pool

like pebbled beach borders,

sorrows smoothed by ritual,

rubbed by recede and re-embrace,

an ocean’s obdurate oscillation

a ubiquitous lullaby sung to the sleeping.