The End of the Line
Once, Constantine brought me to Brighton Beach
to eat tongue and drink carafes of vodka.
But most of the time,
I ride to the end of the line to come to Coney Island.
The Cyclone is America’s oldest wooden roller coaster.
Not the fastest or the highest. It doesn’t loop-the-loop,
but wobbles and creaks
and when it comes to the end
the tattooed guy who’s so big he’s got six legs –
two he was born with and four little metal ones
welded to the stool his ass has grown over –
cranks the lever to stop the ride
and smiles at me, as if to say, Lucky.