Randy old men

watch fresh young flesh toasting
on towels at Lake Worth Beach.
They remember when their songs
rose like the waves lapping
at frosted pink toenails, at perfectly
oiled legs rising to meet at the crotch
of barely there, wannabe bathing suits.

Old women wait for them now,
women with breasts swinging like metronomes,
bodies stretch-scarred by merciless years.
They forget old women dream, too,
miss lustful glances, flesh pressed
against theirs, moonlit nights when kisses
still held the demons at bay.

Pris Campbell


Published at Outlaw Poetry. com


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