Summer
        Weeki Wachee, City of Live Mermaids

The job I chose:
a breathing hose;

a Lycra tail;
a sliding scale.

My lungs were bruised,
the light, diffused—

my somersault
was not at fault.

Before they let
me leave the set,

I took the plunge
to clean the scrunge,

our code for mold.
The waters hold

a clear and cold
account untold.

At night the pleas
of manatees

undid the dark
inscrutable park.

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Copyright © 2016 Randall Mann All rights reserved
from 32 Poems
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission