early in the morning

8:31 am, south portland fairfield inn. she walks through the breakfast bar in a green bikini top and sunglasses, mom in tow. goes out to the pool, which is situated between i-95 and its exit ramp, and takes off those shorts. the traveling salesmen peer through the glass as the scalding woven plastic of the white loungechair sears her taut, pastyperfect assflesh. no one really cares that mom is there. one by one, the salesmen trot nonchalantly outdoors, end up poolside, with their dannons and bran muffins and bananas. mom pretends not to notice and is jealous and is fully clothed. daughter reads something for school, which is starting soon, steinbeck or austen or something else she won't be able to fully understand for at least half a decade. oh, to be a piece of ass on a hotel loungechair on a wednesday morning. oh, to be a traveling salesman.