At Four In The Morning Poem by Charles Chaim Wax

I awoke for my ritualistic
journey through Coney Island
air humid, heavy, ponderous
first gliding along Mermaid Avenue
I saw the hard whore
with long legs who lived in
the Terminal Hotel. For her—
no day no night
then drifted along Surf Avenue
heard a voice say
“Bernstein”
but in such a way, as if she knew me
so I slowed
a woman ran across the street
and said, “Don’t you remember our date?
You were supposed to send me
pictures. That was ages ago
and you ain’t never sent them.”
I had paid
to photograph Minna Ginsberg
in the nude
but after she nodded out—
too much dope—
I took advantage of her
but when the wash of endorphins
evaporated from my brain
I thought,
This is how the dead are:
cold forever and insensate
as the vast stretches
of interstellar space
yet not an hour later
I sought to annihilate
the fearsome distances
and united with her again.
A month later Minna Ginsberg
pumped hot dogs at Nathan’s
into the mouths of hungry beach-goers
saying only, “I got tired of the madness.”
Now
I gazed at her tense face
as she panted, “I got ripped off
need twenty dollars
do anything for it.”
“Anything? ”
“Anything.”