Our pool is bigger than skyscrapers.
I mean that in the horizontal sense;
gravity-welled, but nonetheless immense:
from World War II to honest Abe, it capers
like a new-foaled fawn who’s got the vapors,
sun-dappled synonym for refulgence
although now cordoned off by cyclone fence
and painted baby blue by the landscapers—
Rapunzel’s tower could not match a moat,
And Eiffel’s bridges long outspanned his tour;
why reach to scrape the sky at all when one
can with one’s own wet body float
and hear the little waves that lap the shore
and feel one’s monumental Washington?