If it’s a backflip, then it’s Star
Wars. If it’s a front flip, then
it’s swimming. The exception is
when Luke pulls out his green light
saber from nowhere. If the only
swimmer you know is Michael Phelps,
then you may be guilty of watching
the morning news, as well as
breaking your swimmer’s diet on
Thanksgiving. “Only a few days
left until New Years resolutions,”
you say. But I need a tell, a
safety valve. A promise to keep
the athlete fit. When we can’t tell,
then I feel constrained, lost. My
gills subside in these shallow waters.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 