Leaving Coney Island

We took the B train and novels 
and whiskey in Snapple bottles.  
You went into the surf to pee 
and came out with your feet bound in green-black weeds.  
I squatted under the boardwalk 
where a lattice of light and shadow 
fell upon sand, bottles, needles.
I rode the Cyclone because you wanted to.  
You pierced balloons and gave me a pink stuffed snake.
The man hawking cervezas told us we were in love.
It was too hot. The water was fine.
The beach scorched our feet. It was a perfect day. 

It was a vast shell game, and we played
until they shut down the whole shebang.
The shell was rendered to the sea.
The empty cups came home with me.
Move along, move along.