twenty eight or fifty seven
It arrives at twenty eight or fifty seven,
you wait – seconds slope.
Doors click or slam shut behind,
seats aligned – knees bind.
The lines hiss under your feet,
heart beat – dampened palm.
Disembark at twenty two,
stranger’s shoe – clipped and clopped.
From the entrance to the wet side
bodies and towels collide; you slide into a
pool full of wide expectant eyes.
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