In a chill wind the Wonder Wheel whistles, shivering the pulped skins of the flea markets on Surf Avenue. What's a nice girl like you. . .? I take it as read in the shopkeeper's eyes. Like a soul on the skids, I circle the shuttered arcades, the frozen rides, their cloaked carriages. I count lots of us toughing it out, and businesses catering. Take a bottled water to the boardwalk, drink: Who's my admirer? Discretely, I turn.
A thousand crude dead mouths are puckered at the green spokes, blowing.