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

Exactly which one of the twenty-something stories humanity picked up on are we telling today
The planes intersect in the sky making exes marking loners on the beach tanning quietly from space
They lie in dents of people's footsteps as graceless dogs whip up the sand
Traceless prophets loners virtuous they hold all answers in their hands
Hermit lanterns cantered boats they beckon us they beckon please
In the spaces between parasols of the ones parading peace