SCATTERED MONTEREY
I woke up in the morning
in a hotel room
surprised at the sun,
looked out
on a gray stone building
and realized I was in Monterey.
The water's edges
collapse on each other
and lift up the loose sand,
then recede from
the black and brown and
gray rocks,
from the broken shell sand.
We stopped
in a fast food restaurant
where I saw two
black worn chins and mouths,
one without teeth.
A gray geometric building
with gray protruding parts
under a gray billowed sky.
I walked with my father
in the rain,
in the squeaking rain.
I thought about
the other night
when a wonderful bald man
spoke of the Beats
and another played
a black electric flute.
Now I wondered,
would Steinbeck have done it,
would Steinbeck have
written that book
to bring the strip malls
to Cannery Row?
His picture is in all the hotel lobbies.
I bought some wax bottled candy,
bit the top off
and chewed on it.
It's midnight and cars
are still driving by
my second hotel room.
People are just coming
in next door.
Outside it's black
and the water sloshes up,
drowning the earthworms
and washing away
the foot-crushed snails.