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.