ocean front 1968

it's a small room,
but you can see the beach,
the long stretch of blue
against the soft warm sands
of summer. the dotted leaps
of porpoise, freighters,
plowing slowly on the horizon.
before that the beaten boards
of the board walk. splintered and warped,
the benches full of runaways
and elders who remember a cleaner
place, a better life.
the crowds pass by
between a small set of curtains
pulled back on the screenless
window, a yellow ribbon holding
the sheer panels tied
to a screw. there's a toilet
down the hall with a sign
that says out of order.
you can smell the fries,
the chicken, the pizza
through the walls,
wafting through the thin
floor, the tin roof.
it's a world floating up
into your room
as you lie back on a sheetless
mattress, striped and stained,
an ashtray on the dresser
without knobs. you can hear
a transistor radio playing
the Doors, come light my fire,
and the banging of pin ball
machines next door.
the coconut oils swim
in the air, the sun tan lotions,
the grass smoldering and brew.
it's another day, in another summer,
in a shared five dollar
ocean front room.