Coney Island

The art deco crescent centered on a movie house
convex to the beach, blasted by wind,
was across from baths that have been razed for high rises.
            Elderly people played Mah Jongg by the pools.
The El curves by noisily, lit, above, to beyond,
            stopping conversation.
Rocking airplanes full of kids riding outside the stores
            continue their songs.

The line outside a fish store winds around the block.
There’s no hot soup at any deli. All but one are closed,
but it only has halvah and canned goods and coffee
condensing on a burner since morning.

On the boardwalk, old Russians think it’s warm.
It’s a place existing only for the beach.

Helicopters searching for traffickers or bales,
lights grappling for the old Victorian beach, not this grimy waste.
            Can you swim in that water? Newly dredged sand and dead fish,
tax, work, climb.