It’s sprinkling yet you’re still swimming ten million
miles per hour. You’re pretending to swim like you
are in a triathlon because you’ve watched all the greats
cross the finish line. Your hair isn’t in a swim cap, but
in bubble braids because you once met a girl who did
them for you when you were volunteering. You recall
those morning drives to set up picnic blankets and
run a camp for little kids. You used to be the kid asking
to go as fast as possible because your mom paid for
camp before you knew the reality of money costs. 
You’re wearing your glasses in the pool, praying they
won’t fall off, because you can’t afford daily contacts
anymore. You’re in your raspberry red bikini because
you remember wanting to be grown up like your cousin.
But you’d rather be rushing to zip up your suit and 
swimming those two miles and reaching the finish line.