Ocean Breeze Sonnet
The health care workers line up to smoke
in front of Ocean Breeze on Dixie Highway.
Who can blame them, stuck inside all day
with aging baby boomers who might blow
a gasket, shaking their fists—sundown
syndrome. They’ve just changed the clocks,
set back time so everyone can gain a little
life, but the poor beach down the street
is thinning like Sylvester’s hair. The waves
encroach like death. Soon there’ll be no sand,
no towers filled with folks from Great Neck
and Totowa who came here to die warm.
The health care workers will be glad they didn’t
quit, their cigarette tips sending small flares.