Lifeguard
In the shallow end of a swimming pool a swarm of children in water wings tussle with a giant pink panda filled with air. It rocks and floats. Heads of boys and girls bobber above tiny bodies bleared beneath the surface. Sputters of laughter amid squeals of glee. The young mothers chat idly or yawn drowsily on poolside recliners and bake in the country club heat. The sky a bright empty blue and the children fear nothing. It is Saturday afternoon. Above them all and alone at the deep end the lifeguard perches atop a tall white chair. Her nose and high cheekbones are daubed white to blunt the stabs of the summer sun. Behind her dark glasses she breathes deeply and evenly. Her bare toes clutch and unclutch a white rung like talons. She checks her cellphone. Nothing. Again. Nada. Blocks him. Finally. Were she flighted, which child would she choose to swoop down and carry off? Which smug mother’s eyes tear into with a beak of pitiless fury?
In our dream band, on lifeguard’s whistle:
Robert Perchan’s latest books are the comic futuristic novella Tropic of Scorpio (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2022) and Last Notes from a Split Peninsula: Poems and Prose Poems (UnCollected Press, 2021). His short story collection “Shocks, Meester?” is out now from Spuyten Duyvil as well. His poetry collection Fluid in Darkness, Frozen in Light won the 1999 Pearl Poetry Prize. Bob continues to eat, drink and write in Busan, South Korea, under the bemused gaze of his translator wife, Mi-kyung Lee.
Ran Off With the Star Bassoon 