Not so much sex on the beach as second
base on a sandy blanket,
barely concealing the rhythmic movements
of her hand on his manhood roughly ten
feet from where I’m tanning,
a peanut butter sandwich.
The girl on
t-shirt over her
face to protect it from the sun;
pretending to massage her
leaning over her,
checking if the white-haired gentleman to
our left setting out his chair has any
clue what’s going on there,
or maybe knowing I don’t care.