Hanging Out At Santa Monica Pier

Hanging out at Santa Monica Pier, wining in dixie cups, dancing in the sand. Chants of drink…drink…drink. I took no time to think…think…think. I wake up with a cacophonous surf, unlike the gentle roar of a seashell, and my head pounds, my eyes barf in the light bright of dawn’s scarf. Where am I, I wonder…how did I… Asleep around me, are surfboards. The breakers bound an “Aloha.” When did I leave Santa Monica? No suitcase with me. Still in my bikini. Did none come with me? Am I dreaming? I hear those chants of drink…drink…drink. Why’d I take no time to think…think…think I’d have felt bare, but girls galore arrive with itsy bitsy teeny weeny suits.* I have to broach the subject with hot breath. They won’t believe me; my pride’s death. They giggle and say, “We are having the same dream!” Here we party in Waikiki with tropical sips. Chants ring out, drink…drink…drink I take no time to think…think…think I wake up on a beach at Santa Monica Pier. The rounds of dreams, unreal, a bit upset. I’d hoped to tour the Pacific Island of Oahu. Instead I quip, “ What..where..why..when..who? I hear those chants of drink…drink…drink I won’t fall for the same PTSD prank. This time I run into the California waters. Taken by a shark - with no sons or daughters.