I Hate Wet Socks
I hate wet socks.
I'm knee-deep with diapers floating by.
The steel stairs steps (that go up!)
Just 10 feet from me.
Seawater pouring in from every orifice.
I'd be dead already if I had not bribed the head caterer.
Snagged me a spot 2 levels up
From what is now completely submerged.
I start breast-stroking it through the brackish,
Freezing water.
If I had kids I'd be out of my mind right now.
Tilt! We're tilting!
Arm-straining though sideways-ing water now.
Made it to the steel bars but
Awkward as all heck making any progress.
Scaling Shroeder's stairs,
I hear sounds of mayhem above the open square
The steel stairs lead me.
Shouts of "3 boats left! 3 boats left!"
I emerge onto the upper level
And onto a sliding ballroom.
Hoisting my rump onto the dancefloor
I was met instantly by a wheeled baby carriage
Zooming into my face. No baby.
Black sea water was rushing through the windows
on the lower side of the flickeringly lit ballroom.
A martini glass, magically half-full, swerves into my sliding lap.
A pick it up and slug it back as I brace for
The ocean water I'm rushing towards.
I was 2nd place in breast stroke in the state.
I never thought it would come in handy.
That night I got 5 kids into the last few boats
And then went down with the ship.
Just before losing consciousness,
Descending into the dark oceanic abyss
I could still feel my dreadful socks.
My last thought, still,
Hating wet socks.
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