two dolars and fity cents per night

the room, with warped boards,
a blind
man at the desk. a boy
to hand you a key.
rocking chairs
on the porch, striped
mattresses
on the bunk beds,
no sheets, no pillows
to rest your head.
two dollars and fifty
cents a night
in ocean city Maryland.
a pink cape cod,
with peeling shingles
on the board walk.
a view of the wide
ocean from the front,
an extra dollar for
those rooms.
the smell of fried chicken
in the air, suntan lotion,
salt and sand,
taffy being spun.
all of it in the air,
through the unscreened
window held open
by a stick. the racket of bells,
the clatter of pin
ball machines,
the hum
of people down below,
overfed and burned
walking as one numb mob
to one end, then the other.
it's nineteen sixty-eight.
you're on vacation.