The Kayaker

Sliding down the tail end

Of summer,

Settling on the sand

On a near nasty afternoon,

I notice a kayaker

Paddling in goose pimples

And blue.

Aren't you cold,

I holler over the wash

Of the crashing waves.

No, she hollered back,

A defiant fist in the air,

Tits up to the season

Being sucked dry so soon,

If you weren't  in the habit

Of sitting so close to

The rocks

I'd paddle over and let

You sign my butt,

My boyfriend bet me a hundred

Bucks that I wouldn't take

My body out kayaking nude

 In this weather.

Stephen Nesbitt ©