Beaches

Those that have known the sweaty Sundays
do not crave beaches anymore.
Nor do those who suspect themselves to have
fallen prey to melanoma.
All very well for the Englishman to exoticise
the hot waves lapping at the sand-furnace.
All very well for him to talk of afternoons and coffee spoons.
Give me a poem that writes about a beach country as it is.
That tells you of the thirst on your tongue,
the puckering of imported apples,
the sweat baths, the uncalled for tanning,
the cottons that do not help.
Even nudity wouldn’t,
the irritation felt when you see naked Caucasian bodies
that lay sprawled out in the sand.
Covered by sunscreen, protected by their moral code
which allows them to wear nothing but sunscreen,
and then you turn away, to see a black burqua’ed lady
leading away little Asif to his Arabic classes.
Unwilling is he, he’d rather watch cartoons.
No,they do not crave beaches anymore.
A holiday is not a holiday if you go to yet another beach.
Wearing your shorts and tee,watch your family
paw at the waves, feebly, play ineffectually,
feel impatient as you feel the thin ridge of your thong
tease your butt-crack and then snap tight against sensitive skin.
Suffer the same, pretend to enjoy yet watch with sympathy
the local woman who looks on at everything with spite.
Understand. They do not crave beaches anymore.