The Jersey Shore

The lemony sun stretches its fingers across the beach
While Bruce Springsteen's red, white, and blue voice pulsates the summer heat.
The petite shrieking of dusty children echoes in the gooey air.
Licking sweaty Kohr's ice cream cones as a tangy breeze tinkles,
We turn the fragrant pages of Glamour and slather our flowery skin with sunscreen.
Now and then we slap our bare feet across the spicy sand
And plunge into the musical waves.
Our satiny delight revealed in sugary squeals as each frigid wave kisses our legs.
A screaming plane cuts the fragile sky with a lusciously bold sign demanding we:
"Eat at Joe's!"
The rotund, marble Bennies gather their harsh beach-going paraphernalia and
Hold rancid conversations on location,
While we, born on the shore, hold back crystalline laughter and continue to enjoy
The savory sun.