Perfect girl, whose face, alas,

Is frozen in my Mai Tai glass,


Forever heading for a hammock,

Locked in motion by ceramic,


Conjured up beneath my thumb

By the miracle of island rum;


Endless surf and orange mist

After sunset, always missed,


As slack key evening Trader Vic’s

The hula moon’s mojito mix;


The 1930’s Charlie Chan

Float around the ceiling fan;


Umbrella toothpicks fade from view:

None to blame but FuManchu:


Nothing moves us quite as much

As the girls that we touch,


Except the muses, cool or luscious, 

That by accident (or plan) touch us.


November 26th, 2007

Ala Moana State Park, Honolulu