The Beach Firing Squad

And the old women trundle out along the beach, their snacks and drinks for sale, swinging like rifles from their sore, wooden shoulders; and others; younger and pretty, do the same, eager to learn… to make a little money and they joke when they see me watching ; and stealing a smile, they throw me a potent warning, saying, ”no money, no honey,” and gently swing their brown hips away; and the old women, lining up firing squad like, aim their high-caliber disapproval; winging my bruised ego: so, hurt; I retreat to the bar, and tell my friends how crazy women are; and they feign sympathy, knowing I ‘m a wounded old fool.