by Helia Phoenix
Back in the glory days of this beach
-bowtied, waistcoated-
I used to sell ice creams to children, parents,
pose for sepia memories with family pets.
My cart was my throne, but is rusted and
decaying.
Breakfast now is gas station coffee
missing faces on milk cartons that grimace sideways for the morning cuppa,
brassbuttoned uniform swapped for flip flops and a dirty string vest.
Now the beach is infested
with those tight, candy assed boys.
Envy spasms through me when I see
their speedos clinging like a wet kiss,
playing in the surf, bouncing off each other like beach volleyballs
spandex embraces on the frisbee courts,
lollipop pink tongues
lapping each other up.
The sand groans between their toes.
Their arrival has made me old and gassy.
Those boys, pubes barely protruding from
those tootight shorts
faces smooth like the hairless pussy of those damned college girls
jogging by, teasing, flirting for sugar
morning after morning.
Even the flavours are different now.
Chocolate sprinkles the colours of the rainbow
rain down on coconut-mochoca sorbet
clashing against the folds of my graying skin.
I touch my face, feel the dead crust of
a Styrofoam coffee cup
look down at my hairy, liverspotted arms
forced now to remap my body when they run past, laughing,
day after day.