chicken and fries wafting in

we stop

and say hello, shake hands

on the sidewalk

as we

go towards

our cars,

his red BMW, 

my yellow beetle bug.

hey, what's up?

great tan.

oh, he says, we just got

back from a ten

day trip

to Europe.

he opens his phone

and begins

to scroll through the pictures

of him

and his new wife,

wife number three,

younger,

blonder, prettier than

the others.

he shows me shots of

Venice, Rome, Paris.

they're on a gondola

and sipping

wine on the Left Banke,

eating olives

in Santorini.

and what

about you, he asks, patting

me on the back.

travel

plans this year?

yes, i tell him. maybe Ocean

City,

i like to stay at

the Broadmore

on the boardwalk.

it's still fifty bucks a night,

it used to be five,

but inflation you know

is a killer. but

you can smell

fried chicken and fries

right through

the screen windows.

it wafts in from Thrashers.

plus,

i love the sound of pinball

machines

and the ocean as i go

to sleep at night.

T