Middle-aged Marvin, his wife and daughter, off to work, off to school,
I pass by them on most mornings, exchanging usual pleasantries about
nice weather, lousy weather, Yankees stink-Mets stink, good-luck at school—
a hello-goodbye intimacy, a daily dharma of neighborly decorum.
But today at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade,
I happen upon their honky-tonk coronation.
I see them in regal splendor.
The queen's robe is bedecked in glittering sequins,
and her skin glistens with gold body paint
while on her head a rhinestone tiara sparkles in the sun.
But most captivating of all are the pasties on her sagging breasts,
the sagging seductive breasts of a middle-aged woman turned street fair siren.
And day-to-day Marvin wears King Neptune's crown
and keeps court dressed in a blue robe while holding a trident scepter.
And of course the little princess, the heiress apparent,
curtseys to the crowd in her ballerina dress.
Brooklyn middle-class royalty lifted high on a windjammer parade float
that slowly sails the Neptune Avenue asphalt sea.
I don't call out hello; I seek no audience before the carnival throne
being slowly towed past hotdog stands and three-rides-a-sawbuck ticket booths.
There will be time tomorrow for the Yankees, good grades, and sunshine or rain.
But today my presence would trespass on their realm,
a place and time they never told me about throughout all our daily greetings.
So I remain a face in the crowd
or rather a face moving behind a crowd of parade watchers.
I follow the royal procession along Neptune avenue from West 10th to West 20th street,
while high on the mock-up vessel the noble family boogies
to music that's somewhere between rhumba and rock,
as I, the anonymous courtier,
dance on toes that have become all thumbs
as I almost keep in step.