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WEST COAST SOUNDS
Sailor nights in San Diego
or dreams asleep in some part
of L.A.
Smooth
and cool
horn blown jazz
for that stuttering fool
whose words are brass-
notes
blown over a swimming pool
in the shivering hour
of a strange mid-May.
And cause
this is a poem
the mind is wax;
the pen is a tool
to scratch and say
or etch a flower
either
way
that mundane urge
with its mundane facts
in love with an ordinary power.
Soon
summer will come
making love
and beer
(all stuff that the hot sun
comes to purge)
and a different song
from the west coast bay
where the drunken sailor
looks out from the pier
like a poet gazing from his tower.
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