Down on the lawn
there are old concrete posts
that circle an old concrete fountain.
The pool is green, wavy and clean,
like a glass of ginger ale over ice
on a hot day.
Nearby, a new property sprawls
between the towpath and the river,
cedar with stone walkways,
a rock-ringed blue pool,
and a raised playhouse under the sycamores.
Somebody pays, every decade,
from working too much, or just
from their position under the stars,
for pools in the summer,
with madness, suicide, cirrhosis,
cancer, or falling asleep swimming.
What is loved, of this body,
of the bodies of our family,
all float away, at last untended,
while pillars rest there a little longer,
pitted by time.
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