Dave Bonta turns a day at the beach into a string of small, odd observations, and the humor keeps a quiet unease close by. The shore is "a kind of road / that leads only to itself," a place that goes nowhere yet draws everyone in. The waves become traffic, the sand attracts "hourglass figures," and the sandwiches and ice are oddly described as "white" and "colored," as if the day has been flattened into a brochure.
The speaker says "we," so this is a shared outing, probably with a lover or family, and the tone is playful and affectionate. Still, small details hint at time passing and at the hollowness of leisure: the gamblers, the rides nobody dares leave, the paperbacks lying "like drunks." The ending is the most striking move. Holding hands and walking into the surf is "the only way to leave / without paying a toll." It could be a simple swim, but it also carries a faint shadow of escape or death. The mood is sunny, wry, and slightly melancholy.