resting her head on the seashore
watches the bather take a bath
hoping for more
than glimpses of his brush
she wonders how in the world
he could withstand the incoming tide
of all her propaganda
as she lied and lied and lied
about the size of her breasts
but he shows no interest beyond his toilet
as it flushes his indiscretions away
which gets her so angry
she wonders what else to say
or how to use her charms
to entice his arms
to embrace her:
if only she didn't powder her face red,
he said,
or angle her eyes in hues of midnight black,
then a tryst could stand a chance.
he adjusted his pants
as perhaps a flirt might do
but held firm.
he watched her squirm.
she was hoping for more
but would never take to the floor
in her imagination.
he combed his thinning hair
with an air
of innocence
before crossing the strait
where fate
would find him with another woman.
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