New(er) Poems

 CONEY ISLAND AT NIGHT


The ocean at midnight, lights of
near defunct Coney Island blazing
like burnt out stars or bulbs breaking
one at a time, shooting glass,
Shoot the Freak, booths abandoned
in a junkyard, in these late hours,
shredded stuffed animals share space
with hot dog buns, Nathan’s containers
slotted by the crisscross of the can.
Seagulls sleep somewhere but
the absense of their echo is felt.
The smell of ocean and beer slips
beneath the boardwalk and wooden
beams heave under the weight
of the blond burlesque dancer
who has completed her final turn.
We run into the water like children,
not dipping our toes into test
instead pressing our whole bodies
forward into the dark blue sea.