She walked Brooklyn’s broadwalk alone at night.
Calmly, confidently, she cruised along the shore
of Coney Island’s firey, sparkling, splattering
red blue green lasers and fireworks that were
exploding against the night’s drawn, black curtains.
The Ferris Wheel was igniting with irridecent reds
and whites and purple, pears. The playful, glimmering
120-watt bulbs, by the thousands, were estatically
spinning upside-down and right-side up in delicious dances,
as the girl took in the seductively nostalgic display.
How she yearned to go for a ride on that slow, charming
Ferris Wheel or that fast and exciting, rocking Pirate Ship.
As she walked the planks, she stared at the sad, clown faces,
dressed in cotton-candy pink, with long, white, dreadlock hair,
and all of the aluminating children, ten, twelve, and throbbing
thirteen, running around from attraction to attraction. The smells
of hot-dogs, pizza, and cinnamon sticks, nearly lured her in from
the juicy, hot July night. On she walked though. Swiftly, suavely,
she swaggered her thick thighs in her hot-pink, netted stockings.
She walked to her date, who waited for her at the beach playground.
Dragged beneath the broadwalk, punched in the face, kicked in the ribs,
she was gang-raped and left for dead. Screaming Screaming Screaming
kids in estacy shrieked in joy as they rode the swinging Pirate Ship
the crazy Hammer the hurling Twister and the rattling Cyclone.
Alexis,
I expect a poem about Coney Island from you now – that was the deal, right? 