And the Poets Down Here...
by Bob Della Fave 

Unscented winds blow through the empty boardwalk tunnel
Broken and mishaped planks lay ominously at my feet
Rusty nails protrude from weather weakened boards
Marquees scroll along abandoned storefronts and game stands
Missing letters and hand-painted signs struggle to identify themselves
Convential Hall returns my stare and looks away indifferently
Like a sick giant who has become resigned to his fate
Broken windows and chipped concrete create shadows beyond the Casino's frame
What was a beacon is now a seagull sanctuary
Once proud bookends now rest their defenses to the mighty Atlantic winds
The metal railings are moist with ocean mist and cool to the touch
Splintered benches offer no comfort
Waves crash the shore searching for sun bathers to impress
Crystal blue skies are wasted overhead
White pillowy clouds float in vain
Emptiness has a silent sound and a feel you can't touch
It has a presence you can't see
We honor old battleships but allow landmarks to crumble
Do buildings have a soul?
Are we all not mere structures and facades?