vernal

at the strawberry ball, all the catering is
done by college swim-team boys. they all
walk around in speedos only,
showing obvious obtuseness, mounds
of strawberries on their bright shiny silver trays.
whipped cream for dipping dots the spectacle.
the air is filled with the scent of
ripe strawberries. guests are awash
in the miasma of the atmosphere; there
is an aura of olfactory and gustatory
delight. miniscule digressions from
proper behavior are rare, but
generally involve fingertips placed
on items other than strawberries
dipped in whipped cream. there's
a swimming pool in the center,
filled with warmed fresh spring water,
no chlorine added, no chemical scents,
just a layer of strawberries floating
on the surface of the water. the
layer of strawberries is 3 or 4 inches deep,
deeper than that in places, and
the surface of the water is red and polka-dotted
with a zillion strawberry seeds, with
bits of green leaf poking out here
and there.  occasionally   
a swim-team boy dives right on
in, leaving his tray on the floor
beside the pool, his mound of
strawberries greatly diminished,
barely a dollop of whipped cream
to be found. once safely in
the pool, and underneath the
layer of strawberries, he's quite
invisible: still though, everyone
knows he is there.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem "vernal" also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011. And "vernal" was first published in Thieves Jargon, November 18, 2008.)