Shop Windows & Ferlinghetti Nights

- Twenty years after reading
Coney Island of the Mind

The mannequin sleeps
      hidden in the corner
      resting from the fondling of hands
      that never took time
      to introduce themselves            

The mannequin sleeps
      as night smears itself
      across shops windows
      and the scream of some
      blind beggar's saxophone
      splits the night
      like the song of a lost bird
      a swallow
      perhaps
      overwhelmed
      and the night curls around the alleys
      drenching the street in rain
      finger shadows play out
      skulking around the corner
      blackjack in hand
      ready to mug the first passerby
      who dares disturb this
      Coney Island fantasy

The mannequin sleeps
      as sax fades and the night gives way
      to the grumble of street sweepers
      and garbage collectors
      who make rounds
      under the cloak of darkness
      erasing the few traces of life
      thrown out the day before

The mannequin sleeps
      and the city yawns
      ignoring the coming of Reebok clad suits
      and briefcases
      and panhandlers
      and the drunk urinating on the steps
      next door
      fast checkered cabs
      and screaming cop cars
      the sound of cash registers
      ringing in the new day
      and even newer headlines
      that talk of cities she'll never see
      and poets she never read

The mannequin sleeps
      through the sameness of days and nights
      nearly roused from her slumber
      by the incessant fondling of hands
      that reach beneath her skirt
      adjusting underwear that no one ever sees
      impervious to the leers
      and ogling eyes
      of those that pass her by