"A Day In The Sun"
His balls hung so far
out of his faded blue swimming trunks,
they pressed through the plastic ribbons
of the lawn chair seat
and you could see the sack,
taut and bulging with an old man's nuts.
He had a scruffy gray beard
that went from the bottom of his crooked chin,
to the top of his wrinkled chest.
No shirt,
no shoes, no sense.
The young girls at the beach shrieked
when they skipped by him,
heading for bluer water.
I stood up and approached him,
taking my sunglasses off as I spoke.
"Hey"
Nothing.
"Hey, wake up. Your balls
are hanging out."
He turned and reached
into a red and white cooler,
digging in the ice.
He grabbed the waist of his trunks
and dropped a handful of cubes down his front.
He got up, halfway, farted,
wiggled his shorts, and sat back down.
"Are you crazy??"
He finally looked up at me.
"Listen, son, it's the only way to get my nuts
to shrivel back up
so I can keep them close to my pecker."
I turned and walked back
to my wife, grabbed my towel,
and headed towards the car.
"Who was that?" my wife asked.
"The ghost of Charles Bukowski" I said.
"He was nasty!!"
"Yeah. We're all nasty" I said


