Poolside Vision

I was walking through Woodruff Park again today, although it felt a little bit more like swimming; I had to backstroke my way through viscous Summer air. As I stopped to catch my breath and towel off, I saw him. Lying at the bottom of this swimming pool of a park among the 2 o’clock trees and rugged, rebellious weeds was a middle-aged man, face creased and folded like fresh-pressed dry cleaning before your first big interview He was on his back, still as statuary, in unlaced jet-black dress shoes, polished so each one winked in the sunlight. Arms buffeted at the elbows by quickly cuffed sleeves as they lay heavy on the ground like unsuspecting roadkill on that new on-ramp off of Boulevard. The spotlight was on him: golden rays upon fragile eyelids. Cruel beams focused like a bored eight-year-old with a magnifying glass. He looked dead. Just when I began to dive back in and play lifeguard, he pulled that naked forearm up over his eyes and took a deep, wet breath.