Then two slender women catch my eye
as they waddle penguin-clumsy by,
feet black-flippered. They sport high-cut
red maillot swimsuits. Strong caramel legs
of divers. Glass masks uptilted in their
sunbleached spindrift saltwater-taffy hair.
Look like mom and daughter. On their backs,
massive lemonyellow scuba tanks,
like futurist papeese. Or hatching dino eggs.
    Out of the mud we crawl.

I heard it weeks ago, but forgot it was today:
the Frogwomen passing through on their way
to the Capital. A million divers plan to march
the Mall--in scuba regalia--to demand
drill-bans, fish-quotas, reef-parks and
less sexist diveshops! Surfdudes loudly ogle
but go blind-deaf when asked advice on merch.
    Out of the mud we crawl.

I watch these overburdened turtles struggle
Down to snorkel rendezvous past the church.
Sexy, dorky, noble--all in one! Such humble
lungfish-stumbles move me oddly: they model
progress real: step wiggle, flap-flop waddle.
    Out of the mud we crawl.