Behind the Denny's there is a pool
The pool is old
Long since emptied of water
The one-time attraction
Of the equally dejected EconoLodge nearby
The pool is now fenced off and forgotten
Bushes and grasses crowding around
The concrete edges crumbling
The pool shed decomposing
And a thick, strong
Weather-proof
Water-proof
Child-falling-through-proof
Rubber-coated canvas tarp
Nailed in place with sturdy steel bolts
Extending deep within and beyond
The cracked and crumbling concrete edges
Years have passed
Leaves fell
Layer upon layer
The rot of time turning the oldest leaves to soil
Rains came and went
And after a time, welled up in the ever more stretched,
Weathered but still weatherproof
Waterproof
Oak leaf acid-proof
Rubber-coated canvas tarp
Formed a small pond suspended in the air
Grass seed drifted in on the wind
And sprouted, fruited, died, formed more soil
turning the mid-air pond into a mid-air marsh
And from the brown-black mire still extends
The long, grey aluminum handle
Of the pond skimmer
A last discarded act of resignation to fate
Tossed into the center years ago
Resting in the swamp
Above the thick, stretched, sunbleached white
Weathered but still weather-proof
Marsh-filled but still waterproof
Puncture-resistant
Rubber-coated canvas tarp
And as I stand there staring at a duck dabbling
In a marsh in a pond in a tarp above a pool
At the EconoLodge behind the Denny's
I know I could not have invented this
But I wish to take ownership of it
I feel the need to turn this into art
That there should be some kind of metaphor
That I can take away from this
Maybe the fragility of life
As some day even the tarp will fail, the pond will drain out
The grasses will all die
Or the obstinate willfulness of life
Colonizing any surface we leave alone
And playing out the great cycle in small scale
Or perhaps a meditation on rebirth
On how things broken and forgotten
Can be made new and whole in a different way
But in the end, I think
It doesn't matter
My art doesn't matter here
This place does not care if I make it into art
It exists BECAUSE no one cares
And it does not care either
This place simply is
As all things simply are
It was before I came
It will be after I go
And writing a poem cannot change things
Only people if I'm good
Only myself if I'm lucky
And maybe that is what's worth writing about