I am broadcasting (to thee) a song full of swoon
Hopefully it will be over soon
Fifty five and flirty white as lippizaner horses
At the beach club hungry boredom placed on chairs with other torsos
Parents chasing down their kids
Throwing their foreboding fits
Khaki colored fathers carrying their salty and wet children
Children fathered covered by those fuzzy ponchos made especially for toddlers
Katamarans floating gentle squares on slimy water
I’m not made for moderation
Easing into fleeting moments
Twisted arms like highway horses
White as clouds on monday mornings
In the omelettes of the skies
Splitting yolks on shells disgusted
As my nervous system cries