I Don’t Think I’ll Be Here Much Longer

It’s the wrong exit, and I’m lost on my way

to Malibu Beach. I might not hear the freeway

if the car windows were up, but it’s hot,

they’re rolled down, and damn the adobe dust

dulling the view. I follow a detour down to dirt

on a plot of land marked only with tire tracks—


I don’t think anyone really lives here. It seems more

like a spot to crash between seasons of dates and figs,

pieced together with sheets and scavenged boards.

I wave to a girl who’s sitting on a floor made entirely

of discarded wood doors, a girl with coyote thistles

stuck to her socks. She tells me there’s no place here

to swim. She says there’s no beach. Just creeks

that always run dry but never the same way twice.


Photo Credit: MaxPixel via Creative Commons

About the author

Mark Lee Webb received an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. He has published two chapbooks: WHATEVERITS (Finishing Line Press, 2014) and The Weight of Paper (ELJ Publications, 2014). His poems have appeared in many literary journals, including Ninth Letter, Rattle, Reed, The Louisville Review, Aeolian Harp, Soundings Review, Glassworks, and others.

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