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At Brown’s
an unruly crowd has filled
the parking lot at brown’s lobster pound
they can feel the hot airborne oil and
smell the deep-fried clams as they
pass the kitchen vents
they eat at picnic tables
crammed inside or on the deck
sporting a classic view
of flat marshes and
the nuclear reactor dome
at the intersection down the road
once stood an inn where nana’s father
would rent rooms for a month every year
afforded only by an illegal sublet
to fellow horse-gamblers from florida
and so every year nana and the others