Scott Beach

Every spring when the weather turns warm,
Scott women don their bathing suits
and take their towels and radios and books to
the narrow swath of grass, letting sun-deprived
skin soak in warmth and bronze allure as men
in ground floor offices find reasons to be on that
side of the building standing by the windows,
lusting silently for far-away girls still ignorant,
mostly, of the power that they have. A pane of glass
is all that separates them. Might as well be
five feet thick; the girls don't even notice, so
intent they are on turning often so they tan
and do not burn. Thus it was some forty, almost,
years ago. I only sunned upon Scott Beach one
season, not the sort whose figure men would focus
on. Not then. Not yet. I bloomed much later,
forty, almost, years or more, and when a man says
I look nice, a teenaged smile flashes gratitude.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014