The beach has
aromas of shells
and dead fish
here on the waterline
where the tide rolls in.
Green bits flounder,
ripped apart
from their offshore home;
gulls peck
at the fleshy remains,
find nothing of substance;
head to the jetty
for the chance
of a rock smashed
June repast.

Children run
past shattered castles,
kicking remnants on
98 pound weaklings
who even Atlas
simply shrugged off.

Under the boardwalk
the scents are different;
taffy, and French fries,
the briny smell
of last night’s amateur
excursions.
Clubs
are shuttered
in the light of day,
dark with their
Don’t ask, don’t tell
attitudes.

I am near
with my net
and detector,
searching as always
for meaningless treasure.
Salt dries
on leather
as I secret
my cache,
grains gathered
one by one
in cut glass jar,
remedy now for
broken
hourglasses.

I still hear laughter
from the far off Casino,
long before
Conventions were abandoned,
the round,
smiling clown
against the blue paint,
urging all
to come in and play,
away from
the burning boards.

An albatross soars,
soiling the rusting rails,
low rent paradise
even the Pony abandoned.
Water infected
with flesh-eating foulness,
sun refracting
against endless fog.

It’s 1972,
it’s eternity;
cruising by
Asbury’s rotting piers,
carousel creaking
in the endless turns
of memory.