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Click here- 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
you regressed from astounding, to cliche
- cloak of darkness?-
It is a good poem, but just that,
not up to the standards that you set
for yourself with your first three posts