(For lack of a better name) The Beach

The beach

The sound of the ocean is a bare footed man
in cutoff blue jeans and no shirt playing
his worn out acoustic guitar singing
out of key a song not his own fighting
the battery operated radio.
The texture of the shore is five fingers
covered in a mitten made of sand
plunging in the community bag of chips,
sand collecting on suntanned bodies coating
the bottom of your bottle of beer
and also found where the sun does not shine.
The view is a magazine or good book;
the scenery on the page competing
and winning for the attentions of the
scantily clad coconut smelling sunbathers