D. A. Powell
I had a blow-up raft I used to ride. Down to the summer sea. Dolphins swam beside. Twice saved someone from drowning.
Not me, but my bottle-nosed friends, by whom I was gently buffeted. Dozed. The undertow could have its way with me. It never did.
Someone pushed the throttle down on the great white yacht. The ocean seemed to flush like a toilet around me.
One great scoop of sand went down my pants each time. Scratched my butt like the surface of a home movie. Deep.
The raft has gone the way of the waterbed. The one hit wonder The Floaters sang “Float On.” Then floated on.
But me, I hit the waves on vinyl. “From Here to Eternity.” I should be harder now. The kind of plastic that doesn’t fade in the sun.