All the poets end up at Coney Island, eventually
To find the secrets written in fading letters,
dripping through the cracks in the boardwalk
In winter, they warm their fingers on cups
of oily coffee from Nathan's,
sit on benches and listen to the wind
moaning low and long through the rusty
gears and spokes of the Cyclone,
The Wonder Wheel,
Astro Land;
And it is there I watched you, next
to the metal palm tree,
clacking seashells in your hands and
dancing to the end of love.
So, on those nights when the ghost of Picasso
wanders the city, I will remember you
sitting in that soft midnight window,
thinking of Coney Island,
of the burning elephants and Dreamland fires,
and the sound of the ocean
whispering hello.