HUNGRY FOR LOVE IN THE SLUDGE OF STATEN ISLAND

They left behind the pushcarts

and the joie de vivre of Coney Island

when her family migrated

to almost nowhere—Staten Island.

She grew up holding her nose

in the land of gas stations,

malls and Golden Arches.

There was no air in the air,

even air in car tires seem

to go flat.

Riding the ferry was no fun.

Seagulls flew away frightened

by the invaders from Canarsie,

Flatbush and Sheepshead Bay.

Hart Crain’s Brooklyn Bridge

would never be the same,

Upstaged by a bumper-to- bumper

Verrazano, Hart Crain’s Bridge

would never be the same.

Everybody sat around

blathering about the price

of tuna on a square-foot lawn,

haring beer-belly laughs over

unfunny racist jokes that made

the Virgin Mary frown in her shrine.

When it was time to celebrate

her thirteenth birthday,

she found herself surrounded,

by mindless classmates

with licorice between their teeth.

Not one

showed up at her party.

Alone, she sang:

“Happy Birthday to me,”

and downed a tear-soaked

Entenmann cake by herself.