At the bar they lamented that nobody sits
like a lady anymore and grandly wished for the alternative
of seeing everything in the world standing up alive,
though by their sloshing hearts, knew everything already was
and so settled for joining their statesmen
in another bout of drinking and screwing:
she slaps his face for the ruins
of Asbury Park should he, the fiberglass
carousel ostrich she’s mounted, rest;
he inhales hard the chips of gunmetal paint
marking his wings as they are flaking
through to the standing earth of New Jersey.