Sunset⁠—Coney Island

2 0 00

Sunset⁠—Coney Island

The sun,

Like the red yolk of a rotten egg,

Falls behind the roller-coaster

And the horizon sticks

With a putrid odor of colors.

Down on the beach

A little Jewish tailor from the Bronx,

With a bad stomach,

Throws up the hot-dog sandwiches

He ate in the afternoon

While life

To him

Is like a sick tomato

In a garbage can.