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
