August humidity in Coney Island makes the darkness much heavier,
Candles dimly light the lock to match the skeleton key,
As darkness provides anonymity to faces hiding their shame,
A passing roach gawks at the heavy panting of naked bodies.
Driven by his desire to transform his neighborhood (his one true love),
His Sunday best white suit the yin to the yang of his jet-black eyes,
Tired of the dull moaning and stench of sin perceptible outside the brothel.
A divine solution comes to Lamarcus Thompson, his chance for redemption.
August humidity in Coney Island is not felt before the coaster drops,
A wooden contraption provides flimsy false security as the climb begins,
As gravity provides anonymity to faces unable to see past their terror,
A single gull glides by the wooden structure fascinated by the screaming
John H. Johnson is a writer and entrepreneur from McLean, Virginia. His writing focuses on making every day experiences come to life.
