Tradition (Fiddler on the Roof voices please)

Tradition meets Post Modernism on the Jersey shore

The conchiglie falls from the metal pail into a pit of sand;
crunchy shells washed up on the beach.
We glued them to orange card
making macaroni sculptures
that you could hear the sea in.

It was Art Crawl,
the Ocean City boardwalk bursting with tourists.
The seagulls were decorated for the occasion
their wings dipped with ink
blotting Rorschach tests onto the sidewalk.

The pier sold crab fries, funnel cake
and spirals of Polish water ice.
Skeeballs thudded along the worn wooden kiosks
catching dried flecks of bright red paint;
Jersey tradition colliding with the Po-Mo of Art Crawl.

Author's Note

I wrote this poem at 4am today, so it probably isn't any good. I was inspired by an episode of 'Bob's Burgers' and reminiscing about my visit to New Jersey.