On the porch in
La Jolla
Drinking lemonade
Talking frantically to her neighbor
About nothing in particular,
And about how bad the president is,
And if only he could get a clue.
I can't help but wonder if she's ever seen
The outside world.
The one beyond the cobblestone paths
That begin and end with
Beach Access.
I bet she's never seen a world
Where the waves don't make a sound
Next to her lives the beatnik who can't read
But he's this amazing poet
Who speaks all of his poetry into a tape recorder.
He's a millionaire.
He's the guy who invented toothpicks, or Q-tips or straws.
I can't really keep all of those guys straight.
Behind his house is the train station.
When the train pulls up
I see five girls get off
Who all look exactly the same,
And I wondered if I've become part of a world
That can't see through the fog anymore.