My Pool is Always Open; dive right in

On the grounds of a forgotten asylum, the air hums with uneasy delight.
Lightning cracks beyond the moss-dark trees, where white hoods dance around a burning cross - their ritual blending with the soft hiss of rain, the soft clink of glasses.
By the pool, two men play cards — one crowned in thorns, the other marked with a Star of David.
They wager not for coins, but for meaning.
The world outside seems to mirror the one within...an indictment of moral indifference, a parody of American comfort in a culture of political distraction.
The pool is always open... the clowns, always arriving.