The young washed up at the regatta
with no clothes on their backs
started dancing at the Borgata
on the right side of the tracks.
The doomed alleys were closed up in concrete
when the casinos went Imperial Rome.
Now Thunder Road’s a pedestrian street
the last Italian’s headed home.
The A.C. angel drifted down the boardwalk
tangled up in fatalism and nylon
moaning urban mythos in a blue-collar squawk –
and tripped over a polymer pylon.
On the coldest night in December
they would howl her name at the water
a gauntlet without the grace to remember
even a dirty divinity is someone’s daughter.
But the Health Board says she can’t unzip ’til May –
so she dropped that women-are-angels sh**.
Now she’s Trump Plaza’s sommelier
thinks the smoking ban helped her quit. – Clay Waters
Clay Waters is a local writer who has published works in Onionhead, Plainsongs, and Literal Latte.
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