Fantastic that Angelina endures the summer
twilight, denim ball cap drawn down her brow,
red hair tossed to August wind, the dew point
so high why bother with towels. She cools
her thighs on a glass tabletop to static-torn
music from a nearby radio, and a mixed drink
fumbles in rivulets down her cleavage.
Above her, the wings of shorebirds have sky
to gain while she boomerangs a smile to say
come closer to the black diamond eyes
of a boy who retunes the radio, rolling
its dial like a stone over her favorite song.
Eyeing her, his eager heart pumps at the speed
of the rum that courses her veins – this boy
who’ll come back at sunset, rake the sand
to ignite a burn barrel with an empty paper cup.