The Buddha in the Key Largo Swimming Pool
Ten potbellied air compressors
sitting
in the shallow end.
They have come from the panhandle.
They have come to release the pressure valve.
They have come with Yeti coolers
brimming with Bud Light,
bags of shrimp, other delights.
And on their radio: songs of pride.
These men are patriots.
These men are men
by almost anyone’s definition.
But they are lesser
versions
of their leader, the largest, the XL
potbellied
air compressor.
He sits in the center
like Buddha
in blue-lensed sunglasses,
his massive arms propped on the ledge,
his ten-gallon straw hat lolling
as he proselytizes
about somethingorother.
I wade across the pool to find out what.
I figure
it must be profound
considering
all the reverence they’re giving him.
Then I hear it: “I sold that
lot for two-and-a-half.”
That’s all.
But punctuated
with a belch, and a thrust of his arm
toward
the Yeti cooler.
“More,” he tells one
of his
underlings.
And is served.
Horror Sleaze Trash 