Sitting By the Pool Until the Devil Drops By

For an instant we are sunned and golden, lounging by the pool, An arch suspended like a bridge, or cathedral, above our satisfaction, And while eyes behind sunglasses narrow to slumber Our dreams play a degraded video: First, the devastation that rains upon us all—a stealthy palsy, a swelling, A grave call from our physician, a weight upon the chest, a choking, A bleeding, a paralysis, a fever, bottomless coughing, endless coma, Then, before that inevitability, a sudden inversion of our vehicle, A blast of fire in our night bedroom, a miss-step on a ladder, noxious pills, A live copper wire, or exsanguination on a lonely mountain crevice, While amidst these maladies and misadventures, stalkers lie in wait, Intruders rush through brokedown doors, flailing machetes, and Batter us to bits while shrieking bullets bore through bone. Should we bask ourselves, mindless, till the day of grief awakes us with a gasp? Or should our thoughts be armored stratagems preparing us for battle? The pool is undisturbed, as blue as moonlight, the dew from the glass slips Between our fingers, a southern vapor swirls through the hair on our legs. Where will this day disappear when the Devil drops by?