Yo! old man!
You baby boomer, you middle-aged chancer
whatever
You looking at me?
You eyeing me up, pretending to look at the sea?
Think you’re a babe magnet do you?
Do you?
Lounging there think you’re still sexy
in your tee shirt and jeans?
Think I’m interested in you instead of the boys?
As if! In your dreams!
But
your grey-silver hair looks good in the sun
and as you stretch an arm on the back of the bench
your body has a sparkle and strut
and your smile is a generous one.
You cross one leg high, ankle to knee
and silver and dark hair
touches the muscles, still there.
And I think, not a boy racer, breaker-crashing
rather you’d be
a subtle body surfer maybe
riding my young crests and swells
with a sureness of balance and touch
learned from long knowing the sea.
Want to curl round me like a sweet wave do you?
Pull me down hard like a rip tide’s farewell?
You stare me out, raise an eyebrow and laugh
and fuck it, I’m blushing
You old man, you tide master
you challenging me?
©Liz Crosby