A Beer,
Domestic and left-in-the-cooler-overnight cold.
Half a Little Debbie oatmeal pie,
Which may or may not have been licked by the cat.
And, a Bratwurst,
Blackened to perfection,
By the blue-orange flame,
Of a Hotpoint gas burner.
Eaten on the dock,
‘Neath the mid-morning sun.
Watching a water ballet,
Performed by hybrid bass.
Listening to Marley’s “Three Little Birds,”
On repeat.
Wiping my mouth,
With the corner of a beach towel.
Wearing nothing but panties,
A White Zombie concert tee,
And a hangover.
Breakfast at Bohemian Bay.
Wish I were there, Donna!
Could there be a better way to spend an afternoon?!! Love this.
Awesome.
I love this poem. We all feel at home in our womanhood differently, and I can definitely relate to the joy of wearing nothing but underwear. You made me want to go camping!
I thought you were at 9 Mile Jamaica or Bob Marley Beach until you told me where to go…
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