CONEY ISLAND, 7 A.M. SUNDAY

What are you waiting for?
In the dawn and crusty yellow sunbath
Of beach and rotting board
The fleas feast at the grim brink
Of land on the sludge and worldly remains
Of Saturday night at nature's septic sink
Stagnant sea laps at the sandy skirt
Moving to outrun the narrowing shadows;
They've got the goods, they know the dirt
And who is holding the keys tight
In a greasy grip, belching cigarette
Blown through cracked windows into the summer night
Weighted night, like concrete feet
And stars like burnished nails impale heaven's
Breast, a plot complete
With pre-ordained orphans and bloody thugs
Draw lines in sand awash with sweat
The clans watch over graves freshly dug
The prayers of living cadavers for dead ones condemned
To Sunday's ghoulish carnival mass
To mutter ghastly hymns, absurd amens.

© Celeste Plowden 2010