they slide away from the western sun,
the low thick misty fog of the bay below.
a painful walk up the ramp to the one
building they don’t want to see but know
the interlude is over, as the baggage conveyor
lifts and spins the canvas and leather boxes.
the island mementos–printed shirts, flower
leis, ukuleles, and seashell necklaces,
polished lobe rings. all return with bronzed skins
that fade instantly into credit cards, jobs,
worry, school, traffic. all the modern trappings
in the life where the growing crowd mobs.
the father yearns for blue water coves and bright
fish that eat from his hand, while mother thinks
of the luau and dancers with lovely tiki torch light,
it is hardly enough time to slip away from dense
city living schedules where frantic is not a cocoanut
falling and wave splashing–this speedy grip
on all that once was easy and graceful, but
now feels like the threat of dying by the whip.
they would like to sit on the carousel and spin
back across the ocean surface, reverse flight
to the call of primitive and to the time when
people would sit around the fire each night
and talk story about what they felt and things seen,
before Cook and his men came and changed
the notion of paradise into a place where even
the common notions of living now seem estranged