Swimming in the City Reservoir
You can’t swim waters meant for drinking.
I should have known. What was I thinking?
Yet nonetheless, I found it rude
that my skinny-dipping interlude
was ended on that summer’s day
by a cop who wouldn’t look away.
Instead, he watched as I stepped, dripping,
from water one day he’d be sipping.
Picking up and then unfolding
my clothes, I listened to his scolding.
“Lady,” he was muttering,
all worked up and sputtering,
“You cannot put yourself into
The water meant to put in you!”
I woke up with two of the lines in this poem going through my head. I had to go find the other lines to go with them. I was hoping they’d match up with the daily prompt, but it was too far a stretch, so here it is, all alone on its own.