Dry Pool Bed

The gate was just a chain,

loose link. No lock.

The old municipal pool,

drained for the year,

or maybe forever.

Tiles,

the dark grid of them,

like graph paper underfoot,

caked with fine dirt,

sand that shouldn't be there.

And leaves,

brown, brittle,

pressed flat against the concrete,

stuck to the low end,

a kind of fossil record

of the last storm.

The sun hit it

like a spotlight

on an empty stage.

Everything exposed.

No hiding,

no depth left.

Just the slow, patient settling

of everything

that had sunk.