Bunch of girls
come to the Coney sea
in their bathing-suit best
under toreador pants,
feel about as exclusive
as oranges in a crate,
keep their high-teased hairdos
out of the fright-wigging sea,
move their beach towels down-shore
to sands a bit more exclusive,
same difference as between
a ninety-nine cent and dollar ninety-nine item —
who knows who might spread towel nearby?
Bunch of boys
beached in tighter than sand fleas
step over people
push sands toward a shoreless Coney,
sunglass the girls elbowing up
from their nautical towels,
cast off with
Oh shit! The girls from Fifty-Ninth Street!
From the forthcoming chapbook, Moon Laundry.
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