They submit, let the current take them, their bodies
a tangle of elbows and knees that smack against
the portable pool. In the desert, every ounce of water
is coveted. Kids slosh in every direction, oblivious
why soil beyond the plush green lawn cracks. On the Pacific,
miles of beaches shift, claim entire towns, playgrounds
and cemeteries unaware they lie submerged at the bottom
of the ocean. Still whitecaps insist on forming, waves leap
toward the shore. If left to their own devices these backyards
would wither, the blades of the mower rusted. At dusk
kids lounge on towels, expose strap lines and sunburns
to the night air, the residue of pool water drying on their lips.
But any liquid left too long will sour. Tomorrow the kids
will squash the plastic wall, let the brackish water
flood the grass where it’ll quickly be absorbed.