Boardwalk Prophets: Four Poem Wannabes from the Edge of America

Urban Spirits

Two pigeons and three sparrows, like a punk rock band from the Bronx— one lead, two backups, a chaparrito on bass, and a drummer with a missing toe and a pukey attitude —

— discussing real estate:
Who owns the sky above Surf Avenue?
Who gets to shit on whose car?

One of them looks exactly like my third cousin Alyosha after
his third DUI— disappointed but not surprised, watching the world from a safe distance.

Even the birds here know about gentrification.

Exile Beach

Every Saturday, Mrs. Golubchik from 3B spreads her towel in the exact same spot, brings the same thermos of borscht, reads the same Russian newspaper from three weeks ago.

She doesn't swim. She doesn't tan. She just sits and remembers Odessa, 1987, when the Black Sea spoke her language.

I sit twenty feet away, reading Sherman Alexie and thinking about how every beach is someone's first or last glimpse of America.

The Atlantic doesn't care which accent you drown in.

Mechanical Prayers

The Wonder Wheel creaks like my knees after two back-to-back Aikido classes.

Each car holds twelve minutes of suspended disbelief— twelve minutes when gravity becomes optional, when Brooklyn looks small enough to hold in your pocket.

Below, the carnies count crumpled dollars, their accents thick, their tattoos full of stories about other summers, other boardwalks, other crowds of people desperate to buy twelve minutes of flight.

I paid half of lunch money to remember what it feels like to see my problems shrink to the size of toy cars.

Wind Lessons

Some kid loses his kite string and watches twenty dollars of rainbow nylon disappear toward Staten Island.

His mother yells in Spanish, "¡Qué pendejo!" but I see her watching too, tracking its flight path like she's calculating the ins and outs of dreams.

The kite doesn't know it's lost. It thinks it's finally free.

Maybe that's the difference between “abandoned”and “liberated”, depending on
who's holding the string, and whether they know when to let go.

The kid cries for five minutes, then asks for cotton candy. His mother buys it because sugar is cheaper than therapy, and Brooklyn teaches you to take your sweetness where you can find it.

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‘Til next time.
ak