He leans against the wall,
trapped there for eternity
by shutter and film,
unaware of my future stare
and wonder.

The battered man.
Skinny and worn as Tom Joad,
but drained of the anger
that gave the Okie his strength.
Now just a broken bucket
of defeat.

I've wondered what he's thinking
leaning against the manufactured joy
of a Coney Island advert.
Wide open cartoon mouths,
as if eager to devour him,
or perhaps to chew him up and vomit him
back out onto the boardwalk.

Perhaps this has already happened.
Maybe that's why defeat drips from him like bile.
But Coney is an island,
and thus surrounded by sea,
and perhaps the battered man went to the waves
and washed himself clean,
and then feasted on bagels and beer.

Thanks to Sonia Handelman Meyer for taking the photo that inspired this poem.