It was not a real
lighthouse tho near
the ocean in Hermosa
and hornful of warns
Sunday afternoons free
we listened to hot jazz
players coming together
& going this way & that
And nights were cats
in the lot out back
came for scraps
a tuba sized cook
tossed evenings we
could afford only
one drink and out
for a walk on the pier
in a fog or clear breeze
round midnight round
about midnight waves
breaking into ivory
silk blouses blowing
below to the empty
beach behind us
and Pier Avenue
and to The Lighthouse
its beacon leading
light sinking in the must
of music business.
The Coming of the Toads 