Late summer afternoon: candy apple
sun--scent of boardwalk vinegar fries.
Seawater slaps at the salt blackened pier.
Outside the cracked windshield, gulls chatter
and snatch at our elapsed bits: lost crumbs,
or the hard-crusted stub of a hotdog bun.
And you’re there in my rust pocked car:
Wet matted red hair, and freckle dotted breasts-
salted and kiss sticky.
With its metal face and thin clicking finger
the parking meter glares as I expire inside you.
For us, there never seemed to be enough quarters.