After the Pool Is Drained

In the drained public pool, evening keeps its blue bones. Tiles bloom with fern and chalky salt. A bicycle bell rings once from the fence, then silence folds itself like wet linen.

Children once thundered here, bright as coins in water; now constellations collect in the deep end. A fox steps through the diving lane, its paws careful over mosaics of dolphins.

Rain writes slow braille on the cracked lifeguard chair. Wind combs the lane ropes into whispering strings. From a balcony radio, a trumpet drifts down, rust and starlight sharing the same thin breath.

I sit on the ladder and count what remains: echo, iron, a moon caught in the gutter. Even emptied places hold a tide, moving through us after the water is gone.