Buoys of dirty old men bob and chortle,
the regular circles here, in Lauderdale swell
Pay little heed to new cold water
Of just passed storm, routine their time
Unobstructed, unwatched nattering
Like boardwalk seagulls on a lost french fry
Salt water hair slicks, frame stories ribald,
Boastful wishes of ass to slap.
Gold chains harbored on matted chest hair,
Fading gray over forgotten bypass
Unapologetic in aging speedo, shame
Has no place except in bets unwagered
Vulgar without repent or self-awareness
Yet true to course they live sincere
God, Mom, and legal tender reign unquestioned,
their lot secure in tailored track suit
Everyone else, an unclued fool.
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