Meet Us In Asbury

Trina Scordo

Young buff butches
in jeans and tees
on the east end of Sunset howl,
"Meet us
on the boardwalk
in Asbury."

They rev chrome
engines in front of the Palace
wait for the Empress
to raise her Friday night dress.
She orders the Jest
to spin carnival lights
through the mist.

They cruise
bronze beach girls
in cut-off shorts
and bikini tops. Whirl
on the rides as the sun
goes down on Ocean Mile.

They howl, "Meet us
in Asbury on that south end strip."
Look for postcard scenes
Joey and Marie
scream machines
whizzing scooter rides
swimming after dark
in high tides.

They worship
in cheap greasy grills
anticipate the thrill
of Hawaiian Tropic
on young bodies.
Seaside romeos
dance in the Casino
and adolescent kings
bang dimes into pinball
machines one last time

before the fall
October chill drives
in the silk suited city boss.
He eyes local beach money
gambles workers' wages
and never
breaks
a sweat.

On the north end
pier he collects
debts brags
to his boys, "I cut
the deal in Asbury."
He seals fate
with unfinished cement
and rusted steel.
Empty structures loom
over Jersey jetties.

Scattered on Ocean Ave
fallen greasers lay
union cards still
tucked in the back pocket
of tight fitting Levis.

From the faded planks
of the boardwalk
they howl, "Meet us
in Asbury
by the murmur
of the foam kissed sand."
Where vets sit
huddled in the mist
skeletons of this deserted playland.
c. 2002