Lee Colin Thomas

The chemistry of chlorine
and ceramic shower tile.

Mold, pee, and darkness
draped like a wet towel

over the cinder-block changing house.
Something about that smell, the coolness

and the lofted blocks of light
from six narrow vent-cuts near the ceiling.

Briefly naked, I hear the voices of other
boys hooting out on the pool deck.

July sunlight waits outside either door
to this place where few linger.

Something inside my body. The deep
push-pull of groin and the winding

tick of clock hands. The gauntlet
of snapping towels, what Carl Gerak

said to me, week after chafing week
that summer, and the instinct

to run, bare feet on wet cement
in constant danger of slipping.