I elide

Always the linden line, the neatly slatted walls
with shouting blinded windows echoing light,
singing the carol of four wheelers, of dirt bike
racing through back woods, to smoke stacked mills
long abandoned – spinsters fishing for compliments
ivy draped red brick crumbling, mortar bone white
like the leering smile of a local philanderer stroking his beard
striped and baby blue fedora tilting anxiously forward
like a Dramamine infused rider on Coney Island
this Colossus does not shadow Rome, though its millions
smile at the sea, the long planked miles home
to pedantic sea gulls and needle tossing visitors.
Elsewhere eels and sharks mark the wash, or a whale
breathes its last while nervous bathers try to roll
it back toward the water, like some interventionist
stuffing a coup back into its box. I elide.

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