In the Pool at the Bourbon Orleans
Behold the empty courtyard with its army
of pristine lounges guarding the empty pool—
empty but for a beach ball trapped, untroubled,
spinning and skimming like a drunken fool,
making Venn diagrams on the water’s surface,
skidding and tilting—perhaps randomly,
perhaps not—from edge to travertine edge.
Hold in your mind the glad captivity,
the lavish nonchalance, the willingness
to be blown and batted, possibly ignored,
instructed only by small breaths of wind
in a game that seems to be its own reward:
aimless and fruitless and purposeless, perhaps,
but altogether pleasing to the Lord.
by Jane Greer
Editor’s Note: This sonnet’s extended metaphor is perfectly supported by its clear imagery and excellent closing line.
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