Two girls

walk a small street in balmy late afternoon,

past nice houses,

down a line echoing the coastline,

ocean sand steps away.

They stop on a mounded grassy spot,

at muffled edge of sun and tree shadows,

to sit.

And where, while being girls,

have they chosen

to park their behinds and stare

but directly across from the wide concrete stairs

leading up to the boys’ army and navy academy.

To watch and wait.

One girl, daughter of another daughter

molested by her own father,

later becomes a stripper,

breasts hugely augmented,

spending her nights being watched.

The other, also daughter of a daughter

molested the same way,

runs into the arms of men twenty-plus years

older,

never wondering why.

Two girls deliver themselves,

prey to predators.

This

is a common story.