under the boardwalk

I have walked here to Atlantic City. Street by street. And won the sea. Here where sand turns to cement, turns with purpose, dust to water to stone to castles to a somewhat permanence as board to Monopoly board shall stick, under each and each inhabitant, lifting the adjacent towers to touch the sky, only to melt and swirl again continually just like the mist of my wheelbarrow after going flat upon a melting street. I am here counting the planks from underneath, humming the rumble. So gone from me is Atlantic City, and the walking upon Baltic and so many streets. I stay here now and turn to cement, dust to water to stone. Here there is a belonging, and the grain ripples under my back to wheat while so many of Park Place’s stuck palm trees go unseen, suitably left for themselves to read. If only they too might understand the immensity of the above sea of humanity walking the planks.



Published by pacificREVIEW: A West Coast Arts Review Annual, 2019

 
Written by Joe Bisicchia on 22/05/19
© 2019 Joe Bisicchia

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sky, city, Mist

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