Muddy Poem by Frank Avon

the water was
where I stepped in,
I, wearing an old swimsuit
woolen, made with a top,
as swimsuits were in those days,
dark maroon and scratchy.

Now why
would I remember this
in my eightieth year?
and flapping my arms
and bouncing my feet
in water too shallow
for one to swim,
or drown
unless one lay face down
for a good long while.

It was a new-made pond
in someone's backwoods,
not ours,
and I was all alone
(I supposed)

and peeled off the wool
and stretched naked
on the packed clay dirt
shoveled there by a bulldozer
(I supposed) ,

and slept
in the hot sun
(was it July?)

and never did again.