Pascoe Vale Baths

The water, blue
as the breathless sky,
concrete

a hard towel for wet bodies
prostrate; shivers and wrinkled skin
let the heat
evaporate the blue water
stolen
in a swim.

Voices
sound off as crackers;
tom thumbs, halfpenny bangers
and sky rockets.

At fifteen
the swell of breasts
remind me
of water lapping the edge -
call me to dive in.

The deep pool,
the diving board,
the high ladder older boys climb
regardless of the fall.

That climb,
their laughter
and cheeky pushes
against the shoulder in front
like intruders
pushing against a locked door.

Will that fifteen year old boy
with catholic cigarette burns
of the soul
ever learn to swim?

Once it did not matter
but bikini shadows
cut through ignorance and fear,
light a small fire
no water can quench.