an ancient doctor, mustard having dripped
onto his lapel, lunged forward
from the picnic table, reaching
out towards the child in a heap
by the shallow end of the pool
he lay as the doctor casually instructs
"stay clear, adrenal apoplexy".
terrifically precise in his craft
the doctor led us, as our brigadier general,
to raise the child, slowly, and carry
him, the four of us forming a rigid
parallelogram, a gurney.
time is indescribable in such an instance
as moments raced as the wings of a hummingbird
flip flap, flip-flap, flpflpflpflpflpflp
the ambulance sped around the bend
past patient observers
though was nearly capsized in a collision
with one particularly time-greedy fool
who's breaks were the only sound audible
until one child inquired from his position
behind the maple tree
"what of the slumber party?"
unaware that there would be no party that day
after all.