gathering the moisture she missed.
Water beads on the cup,
plummets fearlessly,
like a skater on a half-pipe.
When it reaches her skin,
it joins her sweat
and travels on,
over her waist
and under the string of her
candy-striped bikini.
I could write an entire song
about the journey
of that one drop of sweat.
But I turn away.
It feels wrong to watch.
These girls are here to be seen,
but not by someone they can’t see.
So guilt keeps me from lingering.
I may be dead,
but I’m still Catholic.
I head for the boardwalk
to find someone
who can speak my words to Mickey.
I can’t use Aura
or my little brother, Dylan,
or anyone else I care about.
Only a stranger
won’t judge
me
or Mickey