Mixed blessing, this. It's six-fifteen. The family's gone.
It's hot as hell and, outside, there's a swimming pool.
What could keep me from its waters, from a place in
Shade nearby to towel off and, with unseemly haste,
Consume the vodka cocktail I would bring outside
With me? One thing: the bandage on my chest. I'm
Not supposed to get it wet. I cannot swim, and, since
I can't, I see no point in going out, in sun or shade,
To face the heat. I'll cower in the house, instead,
Somewhat content to be alone, and grateful for
That frosty cocktail. Still, because what I would do
I've been told I am not to do, I feel as if the blessings
Of this day are mixed, at best.