Atlantic City

 

Atlantic City

At a virgin age 
freshly growing fuzz
I’m walking the chilly beach— 
cross under a pier where 
smell is greenly wet. 
A man appears from among the pilings 
with a face like a chipmunk. 
He starts talking friendly 
so I respond sorta friendly with my voice 
cracking like a hee-haw donkey, and he says 
“Hey— you wanna go fuck around?” 

Two second pause as it dawns on me 
he means literally. He’s bigger
but I bet I’m quicker.
I say “No.” 

He steps away. 
It dawns on me he spends his days there
among the pilings like a hermit crab 
waiting, asking. 

And it dawns on me 
along this empty beach in winter 
so much is asked by the penis 
and I don’t know crap 
as surf keeps breaking, washing, 
breaking, teaching 
what I should learn.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig  — thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen 

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