She sits by the pool’s edgeWaiting, plotting, mapping outEach paddle, each gaspIt must be perfect of formAn impeccable executionI must plunge my bodyForthwith and without splashI’ll propel myself forwardtorpedo-like through the watersShe bides her time for the momentThe perfect confluence of wavesThat ever seems the next to comeBut no, the water repliesYou don’t make the…