The Last Length

The whistle brings everyone to the side
except the woman in the yellow cap.
She is halfway down her lane,
rolling an eye towards the sky
each time she takes a breath.

On Monday they begin to fill the pool.
I have stacked the floats,
put the kickboards in their cage.
The other swimmers stand in towels
and tell each other where they'll go.

At the far wall she turns.
No tumble, just a foot drawn up,
a push. I have watched her do this
for six summers. She has never once
made it look like exercise.

I unhook her lane rope
and keep it in my hand.
She passes the black T on the floor,
pulls once more, and reaches.

Then her hands are on the gutter.
She lifts her face towards me,
goggles full of cloud.
I lower the rope.
Its hook knocks against the coping.