by Roman Pougatchev
You wanted to go for a swim one day.
It was low tide and you walked a mile out
Lonely, back on the beach, I tried to follow you
When I could wade no further I stood
You found some up to your waist and dove.
You came back looking like a wet dog
As we were trudging back through muck,
These days, when we chat in passing,
"What's up," you say. "Not much,"
Creative Writing, Spring '07