by Benjamin Pryor
Cascade like a fabulous line of breakers, a feather
tunnel, a slow canter like a show horse
stepping high, and know the beach beauties living
Southern Atlantic, how they wake moving only easy,
even if waitressing has them pegged for eight hours.
Likely in the night they’ll hanker for a shower
to cleanse the salt, primping for the antebellum.
In sullen cucumber scents, their olive tresses greasy,
young women in cadres of delicate fuck-off
stroll the palmetto streets, float into bars
and close the blue laws down. Then they steer
sugar-snap convertibles back to the island
and blister the Sunday sunrise, taking a last shot
of Cuervo on a couch with droning boys who cannot
find their keys, boys whose diamond trucks are parked
along the ocean drive. Their citrus morning
delightfully hung-over, the chickadees wax surfboards
and peel into black dawn, howling like wolves.
