On the boardwalk in Atlantic City
We will be happy and gay...
In Atlantic City,
they still sell
fresh-squeezed lemonade,
frozen custard,
and salt-water taffy.
But, the beach has narrowed
and no one remembers getting drunk
on the whirl of lights, the stars,
the wheels, and the dare-devils
of Steel Pier and Steeplechase Pier.
No one takes jitney buses down Baltic
and hardly anyone rides bicycles
on the boardwalk in the morning,
the way I did as a child.
Visitors stay in climate-controlled comfort,
drop coins into slots,
dream of risking it all,
but never see the ocean\(em
now that the casinos have come.
They don't miss Mr. Peanut
spinning in his top hat,
straddling his nut roaster,
looking toward the rotted
pilings of washed-away piers
that no one remembers.
For a few nickels,
you could have seen her
horseback and hardly clad;
you could have seen her
jump from the platform,
descend into the tank,
make her own fountain.
No one asks:
How did she pose astride the horse?
Did she talk to him?
How did the animal hold his head
when his hooves hit the water?
Who held her hands and helped her
climb out onto the boardwalk?
Did someone give her slippers and a robe?
Did the splash burn her face?
Did she get splinters?
No one remembers.
No one even tries to jump.