How lucky we are, to not be dying tomorrow.
Yesterday I went to a health spa,
Communal changing with everything you could need.
Wooden lockers and shared benches, women
half naked applying creams, brushing hair,
good-naturedly chatting. One transforming
from wet lycra to soft flesh to sturctured dress.
In the pool my friend and I join the others,
all making leisurely transitions from dry heat, to steam, to bubbles,
to the cool enveloping weightlessness of water.
A pair of friends take time to sit and talk,
One man stoically studies a newspaper in the sauna.
A large group form a circle in the jacuzzi.
Chatting or silent, alone or together,
We are all present and here to enjoy.
Everyone sips water out of a slim, blue cup.
I imagine a bomb smashing this place.
Nothing of sense left, a hole in the ground, the water all gone
complimentary lotions scattered,
hairdryers hanging dementedly from a pointless wall.
Today I sit in a play centre by the sea
watching my daughter make friends,
bouncing around a multicoloured foam funland.
The adults sit and drink coffee,
companions continue our endless stories about ourselves.
A man stares out at the sea.
Some slouch nonchalantly over another Sunday.
I imagine another bomb obliterating this.
The shell of the building an improvised playcentre of ruins.
The coffee gone - what stories would we tell, perhaps with fewer words?
The sea still there, no pleasure beach but a route for escape or attack.
Tomorrow, I assume that I won't be dying.
How lucky I am.