At the Gotham Girls Roller Derby
It’s Saturday afternoon at the Coney Island Roller rink
and my girlfriend, sitting next to me on the bleachers,
hurls her fist into the air with a whoop urging the ruffian
Brooklyn Bombshells on. The skating swarm, beefy interlaced arms,
tightly clad shorty shorts, heads tucked in to Harley helmets,
elbow each other forward in a juggernaut around the polished track.
It's my day off from my nursing job and as the broncobusters jam
the lead with a plucky moniker flying past across each heaving chest:
Hurl Scout, Derby Doll, Rebel in the Rink, I remember at 17
spray painting alley walls and billboards on Chicago’s south side streets
IF YOU CAN SEND ONE MAN TO THE MOON WHY NOT ALL OF THEM.
The fan’s cheers & jeers echo across the rink while a roughneck
from behind shouts a primal hip hip hurrah! I cover my ears
and walk to the concession stand. Back then, I longed to be
as fearless as a Couch Crasher or a Violet Knockout
but my mom, chain smoking at the kitchen table
in her smudged pink housecoat said you’ll never amount to anything
before she killed herself, not sticking around to give me half a chance.
Instead, I ran away, getting as far as the corner grocery
where I stopped to buy some twinkies and Mrs. Lee, the check out clerk,
who taught me piano lessons for $2 every Saturday morning,
touched my hand and said go home sweetie your momma needs you.
The crackly PA system spurts ‘Hyper Linx steals the lead
as I pass a breast feeding muscled mom with a Bronx Gridlock wife-beater
pulled up over her amply lactating tit. All I want is an organic chai seed slurpy
and a bag of chips but a pierced mob of rainbow haired pre-teens
blocks my way. Excuse me I say, an old woman to them
way past her prime, and to my mother, who is probably caught
somewhere in a bardo hell realm ironing her work blouse
while watching Johnny Carson, I wished you would have stayed.
It’s Saturday afternoon at the Coney Island Roller rink
and my girlfriend, sitting next to me on the bleachers,
hurls her fist into the air with a whoop urging the ruffian
Brooklyn Bombshells on. The skating swarm, beefy interlaced arms,
tightly clad shorty shorts, heads tucked in to Harley helmets,
elbow each other forward in a juggernaut around the polished track.
It's my day off from my nursing job and as the broncobusters jam
the lead with a plucky moniker flying past across each heaving chest:
Hurl Scout, Derby Doll, Rebel in the Rink, I remember at 17
spray painting alley walls and billboards on Chicago’s south side streets
IF YOU CAN SEND ONE MAN TO THE MOON WHY NOT ALL OF THEM.
The fan’s cheers & jeers echo across the rink while a roughneck
from behind shouts a primal hip hip hurrah! I cover my ears
and walk to the concession stand. Back then, I longed to be
as fearless as a Couch Crasher or a Violet Knockout
but my mom, chain smoking at the kitchen table
in her smudged pink housecoat said you’ll never amount to anything
before she killed herself, not sticking around to give me half a chance.
Instead, I ran away, getting as far as the corner grocery
where I stopped to buy some twinkies and Mrs. Lee, the check out clerk,
who taught me piano lessons for $2 every Saturday morning,
touched my hand and said go home sweetie your momma needs you.
The crackly PA system spurts ‘Hyper Linx steals the lead
as I pass a breast feeding muscled mom with a Bronx Gridlock wife-beater
pulled up over her amply lactating tit. All I want is an organic chai seed slurpy
and a bag of chips but a pierced mob of rainbow haired pre-teens
blocks my way. Excuse me I say, an old woman to them
way past her prime, and to my mother, who is probably caught
somewhere in a bardo hell realm ironing her work blouse
while watching Johnny Carson, I wished you would have stayed.