From the end of the long line of patrons
waiting for me to escort them to their seats—
the Carmen wannabe in the floor-length red chiffon gown,
black hair pulled back, fashioned into a bun,
the man in a tux walking and reading his program
through rose glasses perched on the tip of his nose—
my friend Bill shouts to me: Hey Stewart,
didn’t I see you naked at the pool this morning?
 
Everyone chuckles as I look down to make sure I’m clothed.
And then I recall the 200-yard medley we did
in our Masters group at 6:00 that morning, my legs
still tight because I didn’t stretch enough after the swim.
Carmen tells me she’s a swimmer as well
and just completed the two-mile race from Alcatraz.
In fact, everyone shares their exercise routines with me
as I escort them to their seats—
the woman preparing for her first triathlon,
the man trying his hand at boxing,
the woman who does Bikram Yoga every morning.
 
The lights dim and my patrons appear restless in their seats.
When Irene Roberts begins her first aria,
the triathlete stretches her arms across her shoulders,
imagines the light shimmering on the pool and dives in,
one arm stretching out then pulling the water
hard along the length of her long body.
She’s swimming just above the surface now
as she listens to Carmen sing sweetly about love,
the rebellious bird that no one can tame.