sayonara, fire island
I have determined to write a pretty poem:
I am sitting on a boat.
The water’s rising on the quay,
the waves are swallowing the bay,
this is the price that we must pay
for being gay.
Now I am on a train:
Everything is fine.
—pretty was hard to see,
“the waves just drifted misery”—
but here Massapequa and there Patchogue.
Turn off the Pogues.
Oh, the Little Caesars and sporting goods stores
are no one’s idea of glory.
But you and me, we got it alright,
like bobbing powerlines
running post to post,
we fuck up sometimes and sometimes
we get it right.