“Wrote a poem last night, Pal,” said the clown with no name.

AC

it smells like Atlantic City kinda,

musty and taffy, makes you think of fun

and smushed cigs on splintered boards

and stagnant pools and ripped felt

and fountains that don't work anymore,

and seagulls that screamed when you woke up

hungover with a bucket of coins in the bed, 

and that ocean water you captured

in a pickle jar you washed out

then brought to the beach

and knelt 

in the breaking wet salt rush

and scooped

as a face you still try to forget 

smiled

so big

at you

from the two chairs you shared

in the sand