Milton stumbles shakily around Mānoa Valley amid traffic.
Petrarch perambulates Punchbowl Cemetery perusing stark headstones of veterans.
Shakespeare window-shops for Hawaiian souvenirs at Ala Moana Center.
Whitman whistles while he waits for a bus at the corner of Ward and Kapi‘olani.
Dickinson rents a Biki bike at University and rides down Beretania to Alakea Street.
Donne silently slams tequila shots at Dukes with a woman who looks like some fun.
Elvis sits in the shadows at Ranch 99, dabbing at his lips with a napkin,
the last bite of a peanut butter and banana sandwich on his breath,
burps as he eyes the red exit sign above the door, and gets up to leave.
A traditionally built diva dressed as a horned Valkyrie
waits in the wings of the Blaisdell Concert Hall,
spritzes her throat with lemon juice to clear a little phlegm,
just before she steps onto the stage to sing her final aria.
I sit at my computer typing away at some often worked verses,
searching for the perfect lines that have eluded me all my writing days.