Life’s Run

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.

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