swimming trunks

hotcake foreheads
the beads on my brow
sweat lodge under arms

salt lick of a sky
counting gulls to sleep
on a colorful towel

the sand on that fat man’s ass
blows free as he stands
getting into our eyes

sprinkling our sandwiches
the fat man’s name
is probably Sanders, I mutter

no, you shut up
the gulls are laughing
they think it’s funny

she rolls her eyes
then squints them tight
fat man ass-sand

is everywhere now
the scent of his suntan oil
in our noses

the grit crunches as we chew
it was your idea to
have lunch in the dirt

your idea of the ocean
replenishing some essential
minerals in this maladapted

asthma-ward nurse uniform
of a relationship long ago fallen
ill watching late night TV

oh fuck all, give Sanders
the rest of this chicken salad
and let’s just go

she’s getting angry
why must we always fight
at the beach?

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