Rain in the Deep End

In the drained basin, rain writes its small alphabets across tiles the color of winter teeth. A dandelion has opened in the drain, gold as a coin warmed in a pocket.

Ladders lean like patient insects. The diving board, stripped of bravado, holds the sky. Each storm arrives barefoot, leaving thin mirrors in the corners.

At noon, the maintenance man passes with a wrench and a thermos of tea. He listens to water finding seams, the way a throat listens to its own song.

By evening, frogs begin their green bookkeeping. The pool becomes a bowl for moonlight, and the whole place breathes through one cracked tile near the ladder.