At the Shore

Overcast at the beach, but the light still glorious.  Ignore the ugliness of new businesses, or old ones with new, generic signs.  Don't even try to make sense of the RV-on-stilts comfort stations.  Ignore the TV screens in Ruby's, and watch the bronzed sixty-something lady next to you, sitting alone in the crowded bar, content with a beer and a paperback.  Or the grandfather in front of you, dancing to the jukebox oldies, baby in arms.  Or the kid with a parrot on her head. Watch the tide of boardwalkers, crammed into too-tight swimsuits, or modestly clad in unbearably hot looking long-sleeved shirts and calf-length skirts. The swaggering, and ambling, the screams and the laughter.  Some in groups and some alone, and everyone exactly as they should be, everyone at ease in their own dressed or undressed skin.  The city at its best, and every single person there a thing of beauty.