Top of the Cyclone

Fourteen years in the system
is no fun. Said Good-bye to Comstock.
Didn’t look back. Rode the bus
to Port Authority. Walked the Deuce
to Times Square. Took the D train
to Coney. Ate Mama’s home cooked
meal at home. No more of that
jailhouse funny food.
Made a phone call to a woman
I know who didn’t say no.

Fourth of July on the Coney Island
Boardwalk. Nothing like it. Never lose
the sand in my shoes. Worked
the rides. Hustled the hustles.
Passed Ruby’s and Astroland.
Tenth Street. The high and mighty Cyclone.
“Hey Charlie what are you doing?”
Guy who runs the roller coaster.
“Looking for a good place
to watch the fireworks.”
“Climb up on top of the Cyclone.”

So I went in the gate. To
the ladder only somebody
who works there knows.
Hand over hand. Foot after foot.
I pulled myself to the top.
Pulled myself out of fourteen
years of incarceration.

Stood there under the stars
and the sparkling sky.
Alone and free.