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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.
Copyright ©
Kim Rodrigues
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