Lindsay Daigle  

 

     

 

     

                  Coney Island Haibun

 

 

The next sketch to read in Baudelaire was “The Old Clown,” but I bookmarked the page and put it

in my bag because the F train was about to reach its final stop. Only two others exited the train with

me: an MTA staff member—blue pants, blue collared-shirt, blue sweater, blue brimmed hat—

laughing at herself losing balance; and a small Latino woman, hands clasped in her lap, routinely

waiting for the doors to open. They left the station with purpose, but I hadn’t discovered Coney

Island yet. It was after dark on a Sunday, the streets were nearly empty, and I was not where I’d

planned to be. Here, it seemed, everything used to be something that pleased someone. I will come

back when the sun is out.

 

 

 

If I give him

a couple dollars

and sit in that car

waiting for someone

to bump it,

would I be more hopeful

than the ascending

Ferris wheel rider

unsure of her

return to earth?

 

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