Clearly
you are the kind of man
who knows his way
around a beach.  

Clearly
you are the kind of man
who’s seen his share
of the searing Florida sunshine.  

Lithe,
but not necessarily lean,
you stroll casually along the beach,
your skin now the deep leathery brown
of an experienced beach-goer.  

None of this would be
remotely remarkable,
save for the fact
that the slight pooch in your belly
protrudes ever so slightly
over a curiously small pair
of black Speedos,
coupled with a baseball bat
you so thoughtfully
slung over your tan shoulder.  

Where is your towel?
Where are you heading?
Do you have a plan for that baseball bat, sir?
Do you have permission to wear that bathing suit?  

Were I alone,
without children,
I would follow you to the ends of this beach
to see
where all of this leads.