Tell me where
were you a month,
a year,
childhoods and ages,
seven, eight, nine,
ten years
ago, and where are you supposed to go,
to the community pool,
where the women with red leather
for arms under the still-strong sun tell you
to hold on to yours,
your youth,
as long as you
can and never die
your hair,
try not to count
one to three
buoyant strands and piña coladas,
or wonder
what is all the fuss about
what we’re living for,
a breath of fresh,
air
and to feel something,
the health benefits of cold plunges
below 4.4444
Celsius repeating
and mineral water?