An empty pool
is just an empty pool, not a gaping metaphor out back, not a nagging reminder
of promises rotten on the vine, the life you could’ve led but didn’t.
It means only
a solid week of dinnertime thunderstorms and baleful squares of red over local
counties that keep painters far and away and futile, not the subtext that
nothing can ever happen fast enough for you, that you will never be ready, not
matter what you do.
It does not
have to mean, despite your Poor Little Rich Boy lamentations, that you will
spend a summer fuming and broiling on concrete surfaces with no relief after
mowing the lawn. It is only that summer, true Summer, will have to wait a few weeks,
while man and nature get it together, a delay you will never remember.
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