Daughters Of The Catskills

Daughters of the Catskills

“We can never be ahead of our own,”

hot gossiping while glinted,
appealing on their wavering
sundeck, squinting;

Dropped in big covetous
lights away, those slighted,
those bidding, composed
down reddishly gilded
(how skinny) calloused texture,


through-to at least
a decade’s old last spare,
(this dawn’s security, shelved, so),
warm-toned beachwear:

who’s white-flowered, printed,
mothball-scent assented,

but thoughtless to generous,
countless, aggravations of
a deeper settling, unrented.