Guard

He carries the octagonal placard

quietly through the spa plaza,

local viejo in black windbreaker

and work pants, employed like a

crossing guard, he is nearly invisible.

Please Whisper reads the sign,

calming the talkative grandmother

from Oklahoma and her grandson

in earmuffs, submerged up to their

freckled shoulders in the open air

arsenic tub with a high school diva

in blue Speedo, boyfriend in orange

trunks, and a Japanese toddler
who would rather be dog paddling
the larger, cooler pool.

This sentinel saunters out of place

in his heavy rimmed glasses and
tedious task where we relax, works
the alert shuffling through Winter’s
splashed water on cold concrete,
raising his sign on a stick, Olympic
judge eyeing the high dive, lifeguard
with a thin white ponytail tucked

into his collar. He moves through

the labyrinth as impatient whispers
rise again to afternoon crescendos
and the impossible patrons

cup their hands to their mouths,

slowing down.