Siloam’s Pool
Halfway down the 25-meter pool
you started laughing your head off
almost rocking out of my cross-chest carry.
I struggled to side stroke to the wall.
You could’ve drowned us, I yelled when I got you
up on the deck, What the fuck was so funny?
You were still chuckling, eyes shut tight,
shaking chlorinated droplets from your ’fro.
It hit me you're the only guy here that wouldn’t
let that happen because you're color blind.
Well, not really, but you were the only black guy
in the freshman swim class, and no one else would
partner up with you. I didn’t see the big deal.
So we made the odd couple to the other students'
relief—you tall and skinny, me shorter, stockier,
you an Army vet back from ’Nam, me a former
lifeguard lonely frosh at a huge university.
I guess acceptance was important to both of us.
So we got through the class and went our ways
which meant we didn’t see one another until
junior year—different majors, different dorms
—not unusual for a place so big. Then after it
was legal to get beer at the bars I saw you
at the Phyrst sitting at a table in a fatigue jacket,
luxuriant ’fro, shades, with a couple of brothers.
It was good to see you, so I waved, peanut shells
crunching under my soles. But you stared
past me as if I wasn’t there. And I slowly began
to see the pool's depth.