She’ll Float

A dab of red
paint or polish
left on a wooden
four-top. Glossed over,

she refuses to be
completely forgotten.
None of them says
good-bye. They just leave

a trail of phantoms
with black
(and blue)
nails and lips.

She doesn’t ride
the train with any of them.

One drowned
in his own
swimming pool
(no vomit)

like a chipmunk
or rolling stone
or unidentified man
seeking a closer look.

She swims
in oceans
and tidal straits.
Always hated baths.

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