i changed my mind and wrote a different poem for this week. it's supposed to be a memory poem....
Swimming time with plastic
Swimming time with Christina
Can be an awfully miserable playtime activity.
You see, that is why I prefer swimming time with plastic.
I can sit, and splash and kick my feet. I can even
pretend to be a motorboat--
Can she do that?
Her ruffled swimming outfit makes me want to hurl. It’s pink, with glitter. Why can’t she wear something less girly? Like me, geometric print swim trunks, in complementing colors of course.
She'll backfloat with a heart-shaped necklace dangling from her neck, while telling me exactly what temperature of water she prefers.
“Not too hot. Not too cold.”
Who made her Goldie Locks?
She has brown hair. Anyways, back to plastic.
Plastic just sits there while I wade. He won’t talk about what new shoes grandma bought his Barbie. Or the macaroni necklace he made all by himself in Miss O’s class.
Plastic doesn’t speak.
And he doesn’t cry when I splash him in the eyes.
Plastic floats. I can push him through the water to make a tidal wave. I can leave him on the grass and the sun melts him into funny shapes.
Why doesn’t Christina just melt?
I can put my nose underwater.
She can’t do that.
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