We lived In our Goodwill bathing suits During our arduous summer isolation From school and friends. They were shiny, silk-like. The scrotums were always A size too big, And so, sagged, Exposing us like water snakes Raising heads from darkness. We sat in the back seat of the Rambler Like three monkeys, Towels wrapped sarong-like. The heated air rose from the hood As visible reminders. This was Mammy's idea, Hoping he would feel obliged After many hours of hoeing and weeding. Just an hour at the Beach. I longed for the sound of slowly crushed stone Beneath the tires as we backed out. He emerged from the house, Walked to the garage, Never glancing our way, A half hour later we got out. But I saw, I heard, and now I speak. Some fathers are never Dads.