Boardwalk

I never challenge the medium of ink to a page,
Pens to the street,
Kicks up on ya seats,
Seeing painted palm trees gingerly planted,
Inserted in dirt from the Depot,

There’s no sand on this beach,
Not anymore,
No brownish white
No soft,
Not like it was
Not like we knew.

Russian-Polish dialects flood the air
Around broken planks
Paint yellowed, white, and parched
From salty breezes of sea air,
Surrounded by seagulls, and pigeon shit covered lamp posts.

A drizzle sets in and my coffee gets cold,
Ducking under painted pavilion tops where there used to be free sky.
It’s all brand new,
Sculpted and blue,
Rain on the beach doesn’t mean going home anymore.

Recalling days we sat by the water,
Relaxing with 22 ounces of brew,
Or a can of coke and my Dutch friend from Philly,
A smile flits across my lips thinking of pre-games,
And getting ready songs before we hit our P.T. destinations.

Adidas to the planks-
My laces are thinner now,
Passing bocce courts and horseshoes,
Playgrounds abound with slides, swings, and giant silver screws.
I remember leaning down 17 years ago to brush gravel dust off my Etnies,
Swinging legs up onto broken benches,
Passing stories,
Smoking truth and collapsing into laughing fits.
Now I watch a yellow contraption comb the sand,
Leaving tire tracks and skinny lines,
Docks jut out just half the length they were,
Jettys just rocks where we used to walk out.
Watching them crumble under rebel feet,
Disregarding danger signs taking mossy steps,
And jumping into the icy black sea.

Green moss covered stones,
Scrub brush and grass grow
Over what used to be pure,
We used to be pure.
The sand is dirt now.
No brownish white,
No soft.

Ill fitted screws and
Bolts in the deck
Wobble as joggers amble by
But the playground sparkles with corporate glee.
Refurbished boardwalk,
Tables to gut fish beside a reception hall,
Where a beer is 8 dollars and a steak is 35.

It feels cleaner to be here but less like home,
Under the cover of summer with
2 feet firmly down,
Pounding avenues I knew so well,
Feels like meeting for the first time.

Heads held high,
Watching skywriters advertise on a banner,
We were young
And the boardwalk was home.

Ode to the Codes (2011)

10306 you grew me up,
taught me how to toast,
smoke, rave,
drive and flip cups.

10304 you taught me solidarity,
how to be alone and strong,
be myself—no one else,
and then move the hell on.

10013 gave a glimpse of how things might be,
to a girl living in the big city,
testing boundaries often but not pressing hard enough,
losing sight of everything, blindness, and home again.

10306 a brief re-visit,
I relish all additional damage you did.
Some say one should never go back,
but my hometown zip always reeled in my slack.

10314 spawned a five-year party,
conflagration of company just like it used to be,
a smart move: back to school,
finally a real job!

10314 again was another first,
a house became a home,
first real one in years,
but no more living alone.

07044 well you know,
I am never sure where that story will go.
I've managed to try and for years made it stick,
But not without gallons and gallons of ick.

10301 returning once more,
A year ran rapidly by triple locking my door,
On a hill just up the street,
Will I ever have a permanent code in which to rest my weary feet?

With brief batches of 718, 917 and 646,
One can almost be fooled that a 973 might stick.
The one thing I've learned from all these first few,
Is to never let a zip code-ever define you.