Tittering Teenage Girls

After lifting weights I'm ready to cool off. I grab a towel, quickly shower, and walk outside to the pool in the low light of late evening.

Five tittering teenage girls splash and chatter in the middle of the shallow expanse. I head over to the far side, where the pool water spills over a low edge towards a pond.

I toss my towel on a chair and slip into the water. Crouching neck deep I casually stretch and look out over the pond. The smell of juniper mixes with chlorine.

The girls are spitting water at each other and laughing.
"See if you can curl your tongue like this."

The closest teenage tittler glances over at me. Other than dark hair, nothing distinguishes the girl. Early high-school anorexic gigglers all look alike. Trying to keep her voice low, she says, "Hey, check that guy out."

Her plywood-chested friend turns to look. "Oh, I thought you meant he was ripped or something."

A bandage on my toe is starting to come off underwater. I pull it the rest of the way and quickly shove it in my pocket.

A fat, balding European jumps in. Thank Muhammed his Speedos stay on. The plywood girls resume tittering.

Godzilla wears a moomoo

I'm walking around, drinking tea this morning (a.k.a. "afternoon"), when a blubbery, flower-print apparition saunters into view through my sliding glass door.

Apparently someone wakes up later than I do. It's after 3 p.m., and the spongy, gray-haired reptile totters around the grass in her nightdress and curlers.

She staggers my way, but sees me, thinks better of it, and heads off between two other houses, eventually circling back to her porch.

Damn, and I was finally going to meet someone...

I should knock on Grandma Godzilla's door and introduce myself.

Poem to be read at 3 a.m.

Okay, it's more like 1:30 a.m. now, but what the hell. My light's on.
--

Poem to be read at 3 a.m.

Excepting the diner
On the outskirts
The town of Ladora
At 3 a.m.
Was dark but
For my headlights
And up in
One second-story room
A single light
Where someone
Was sick or
Perhaps reading
As I drove past
At seventy
Not thinking
This poem
Is for whoever
Had the light on

-- Donald Justice