he is a life guard, though his figure
doesn't glisten or tower above the sand.
Sunglasses punctuate unremarkable eyes
that search the sea and stare.
Always he anticipates those cries,
at first like hungry sea birds,
calling above salty waves of despair:
the flailing and confusion;
the kiss of life and the compression
that forces the exchange
of unholy water for blessed air.
But he is neither such - the savior
nor physician, and heals not a soul,
least of all his own.
Returning to his post he forgets
the before, the after
and the in-between when
the bather is mostly content
to lay upon fresh, dry towel,
read her book
sipping raspberry tea.
Then is when he is simply
another pale old man,
tracing the tide
along the lost causeway
with his emotional amnesia in tow.
