A boy stands in the holding pen
of Disneyland's Tiki Room, tries
to tell Mother truth, but she
won't stop looking at her phone even
when he beats rhythm on her knee,
a banana leaf slapping sand MA-ma,
MA-ma. Everyone drove canoes
and ate pineapples. There was rain
and drums and I wish I lived back
then. I bend my knees to meet this child's
eyes. Oh, I remember the Tiki Days with all that
pineapple, rain and drums. Remember
the dancing? Like seaweed. Like dolphins.
My hand undulates the horizon in
floating waves anyone can see except
his mother who yanks his arm. I remember
the Tiki Days too and those were the good old
days before kids. The boy resumes softly slapping
his mother's bare knee, back of his hand, open
palm, swishing gently on her skin. In his rhythm, MA-
ma, MA-ma, MA-ma. He folds in
upon himself, a kapa cloth with perfect
plaited corners, lays himself down in the bottom
of a koa canoe, pushes off to sail by the stars
you may only see in the dark.
