Two days before one Fall was the day of her own.
this last dying spirit from the incandescent Trinity stands,
bequeathing to another New York City Summer night
her now dishallowed grounds, succumbing to the final swipe
of Progress’ scythe that some Moses helped forge.
Throughout the recesses of this former asylum
that reigned well a 67-year stretch of controlled chaos,
could be heard an trumpet heralding a two-track Coda
as a long last diminished hooray, with the first seal opens,
telling how there’s no business like show business
before the second serves a lachrymal bittersweet cup of kindness yet
Then, tier by tier, her bright eyes and era permanently close,
old days consecrated to night and those of her times immemorial quietly bewail.
Tilyou’s steel horses long since left their tracks to lie in rust pastures
where Coney’s feral flora seek to reclaim and engulf this now ratless ship,
the only fun park phoenix to shine from ash ruins
that yielded no rebirth of her younger kin,
her sweet Luna and her bright Dreamland,
that also catered youthful the now olden minds
who share in this decay, left with just the recollection of fun and other things;
the quintessential calliope pipe blows; cog and chain clackings,
wooden creaks and swoops of every ride into that g-force field of screams;
the half-mile joyride together before the jolts and blasts awaiting them
at that theater and the nickels worth of satisfying the appetites of all five senses
to ease the yearly swells of those huddle masses at each old West Brighton remade anew
through the unchanged sea salted air
transcending travels past to present,
the living past cannot look to the sign of the times
and share that signature face-wide grin that greeted all it greeted
but greets oblivion today.
The last gasp of Pennsylvania Steel,
the bonework that forged her wheel of prominence
and rolled the horses that helped build her People’s Playground,
now embodies her fate by not having a parachute to save her now that she has fallen.