The Y and the 7

October 18, 2011

My friends liked to go to the beach. Swim. Boat. I hated it. Its my skin. My lungs. Skin burns. Lungs don’t like water. I can’t swim. I can’t wear shorts. Or go topless. (I used to have a body.) I have to wear a huge hat on my head. And dab my nose with something that looks like bird…  You get the picture. I look ridiculous. My friends were always thinking they might get lucky. With the birds. There was no way in hell any woman would have been attracted to me. And if there was one young lady,  I don’t think I’d want to be associated with her. So we were at Wasaga Beach. (It wasn’t Wasaga but I like to say Wasaga. Great name for a beach. Wasaga.) I wrote this poem. Just listed everything I saw around me. And then tagged an ending on it. Its not much of a poem. I think I’ve probably read hundreds like it. But I liked the title. The Y and the 7. Nice couple.

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seashore needles

waters lash

sunburnt walrus

beachcombers jazz


summertime drone

driftwood laughs

everyone imitating

childhood crafts


sunshine worshippers

barbecue mass

the day turns into tan

the night breaks out in rash.

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