—
You stand on the beach, awkward
in high red trunks.
Storm of hormones,
pimples raging.
Looking soft, longing hard.
I follow your gaze
to a bikini-clad girl lounging
in the sun: insouciant
mouth, voluptuous breasts,
twenty-four karat hair.
I want to tell you what I’ve learned:
that in this tender war
with so many prisoners taken
wounds inflicted
the high ground changes hands.
Your time will come
and pass.
—
—
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