TOMAC LANE

Was a parking lot.
A dead end,
At the edge of an inlet
From Long Island sound.
We’d meet there at night.
Moon out, low tide,
It looked scraggly and smelled bad.
We called it “Malibu”
And dreamed of California,
Where cars and girls,
Were more relevant.
Summer nights,
Boredom creeping in,
We would show up,
And wait,
For whatever was coming.