A snotty little cloud, high and mighty
wearing Dress Greys all afternoon,
parks over South Padre’s beach crowd.
Two women stand between its shadow
and a foamy surf, tattle-tonguing about
the preacher’s wife. They whisper how
they spied her in Island Market sneaking
two bottles of Mogen David into her cart.
Who’s she trying to fool? they gaff. It’s not
even Passover! They cluck their tongues,
gnarly toes buried in cool coarse sand. Down
beach the preacher’s wife relaxes beneath
a palm, sips her wine, devours Fifty Shades
of Grey, concentrating on the erotic words,
not her exposed skin turning shades of red.
She’s unconcerned how fickle clouds
and church wags behave on summer days.
She fantasizes instead of wild love-making.