Ode to Coney Island

The subway car empties
little
by
little
at each stop.
It travels slowly over
rickety rails,
gasping for breath in the chilly air.

“Last stop, Coney Island”
echoes
echoes in the empty
station.
The door closes,
down
the steps of a lonely
corridor,
out of the vacant terminal,
into the sunlight of a
silent street.

The carousel ride turns,
carrying only ghosts of summer-tanned bodies.
There are no hearts to spin giddy by
a Tilt-a-Whirl that stands still,
no blinking lights
exploding in color,
no music to fill the lifeless air.
Out on the boardwalk,
a lone bicycle leans
against the rail,
waiting
for someone to return.
Behind it, an endless blanket of sand
and
the smooth ocean waves
wait
patiently.

Everything was closed
at Coney Island,
but I couldn’t stop smiling.
The people will come
eventually,
but for now the carousel turns just for
me.