That time again, the bloodied shin,
The Achillies gash, the nick behind the knee,
Wicked campground shower stalls, foothold free.
What pose to pose, the flamingo, plié or tree?
For that microscope of summer sun, and glistening sand
The magnifying lens of sunglassed vision
Glaring at those few strays with derision.
She strides past all of us waiting our turn,
For our five minutes of freeze or burn
Her sporty shorts and shoulder-length hair
She’s been here before, she knows she doesn’t care.
She plants a foot on sink edge, like claiming the moon,
A lathered leg, flick-flick the blade, she owns the room.
Rinse, repeat, brush teeth and polish out the sink
The big male mosquitoes at the top of the mirror didn’t even blink
I haven’t blinked, she’s gone, I’m still in line, but now I know
I’ll be in her camp, her legs, her flip flops, starting now.
Photo Prompt: Mag 266