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.

Wicked wienie wonce was woman whuut. That’s what you wrote in my yearbook. We were in bra and panties it was fright night alright.



 



Now don’t get your panties in a bunch, you’d say. I pictured carrots. Bugs Bunny munching scanties that were worn by Elmer Fudd.



 



But everything was a slasher flick with you. Or mutants. You wouldn’t see aliens. Devil flicks bored you. You screwed the devil you said



 



and he wasn’t any good. That’s a devil for you. Speak of the devil, saw the ex on a cross-town bus. I’d like to say he let himself go.



 



But no more than I. No more than Tallulah Bankhead had in Die, Die My Darling or Bette Davis in Burnt Offerings.



 



Which, by the way, you refused to see. And who could blame you? You said you’d seen enough trash. Swinging an axe.