Poem By edward serof
to the many wee morning hours when...
Brown pelicans waft palmetto fronds, each wing flap knicking bay ripples.
Sleek mullet lurch at harbored lunch, pulsing silvery missiles
of flesh blown from Neptune's brackish abyss (deeps)
somehow a fisher's warily cast net, just missed, weeps.
Dockside senoritas in prime skimp down from main houses
marguaritas, iced long necks, sloe gin, opened blouses;
their silky tresses giggling as they jiggle sashay swollen vulva,
to serve men bellowing conquests, spouting sport stats, drooling involvement
drawing on fat Cuban cigars and throwing in lost hands
cursing, rabid laughter ensconced in wreaths of liquored smoke, highest brands-
halos of a sort for fallen angels beseeching.
Setting sun bleeds the dying day, they miss His best teaching,
verily begging a last glimpse till insects past pestering,
drag these rich, unfit bastards for slogging jog inside festering,
to ravage hot-wings and such, at last pawing their women
for hot tub sex, who, not seduced yet relenting
simply to quell their stench and filthy talk that dies in drunken slumber
palming at last the late-night remote-a sham of peace, take a number.
Sated pelicans perch on pilings, last preening;
rising crescent moon just smiling keeps silkened sands sheening,
and never seen zillions of frogs croak and croon for wired endless mating
the heavy night, steaming, slips away, sighing to life deepest aching.