Crossing Pleasure Avenue

In Sea Isle City, signs are posted:

Take it slow for the turtles.

Every summer they cross the pavement

from bay to beach, like us.

Pleasure Avenue is the name of this road

and even if we don’t give a whit about turtles

we are compelled to check our speed.

If we travel long enough from the casino bus,

Pleasure Avenue will lead us to oldies night

at Busch’s, where we can, if we’re quick, beat out

the white haired ladies for a place at the end of the bar

to sit with our handbags swaddled to our chests

like the babies we never had. It’s the best

spot to sip a martini and survey the kingdom

of nothing else to do on a Saturday night.

The dj spins tunes as women with thickening
midriffs, reclaim their youth on the dance floor.

We need to take our pleasure as we can.

When I pause just a beat too long before
saying no to the married guy in the ballcap—
the only guy I want to dance with—who
do I think is watching? Why do the turtles 
lay their eggs in the sand and not the mud?
God has his head in the clouds. He flips
a coin to decide which is the wrong side. 

Watch as He sets a quarter on the back
of His thumb. Watch the female turtles
and their newborn young take their marks a
long Pleasure Avenue, the ocean side,
as the hot pavement sweats,
and once again risk everything.

A version of this poem was first published by Uphook Press in its anthology, Gapeseed. It also makes an appearance in the play, "The Old In and Out."