Folk Art
Into the empty grandstand seats,
the synchronized living competition
splashes its families' accroutrements
and legal papers. The stacks
of towels sandbag attempts at all
other sports by choking children
spotting the water's edge. Right arms
raised signal positions in the pool
that spell out some reason for
breathing.
Lifted left arms inform commuters
of turns. The vortex to coordination
dizzies awkward treaders dotting
the business districts with bathing
caps
while it sucks at funeral parlors in cities
and suburbs. The losers walk boards
and planks gargling soup kitchen therapy
and submerge, while the ballet
bathers
hold their noses on queues. Getting
their kicks from the Champaign of stocks
and nepotistic bonds, the team strokes
the American dream with house
paint
and rescues cramped quarters with life
insurance. Eccentric humans, waist deep
in cooperation, squat with mediocrity,
dive with fellow divers, and spritz
with mellow spritzers. Every year
champion communities dry by design
in retirement where they bow in tandem.