Camille is fed up
with doom and gloom,
craves a few hours of joy,
a delinquent afternoon
between satin sheets
with a sexy man who
just wants to play.
She shuts down her computer,
tosses out the morning paper, unread.
Showers, waxes,
slithers into a red thong,
low-cut glitter top,
camel toe jeans.
At a window seat
in a little wine bar
on the Santa Cruz wharf,
she sips icy prosecco,
smiles at passing gentlemen,
lean, agile surfers.
Admires sunny sparkles against
the rhythmic pulse
of giant incoming waves.
