I saw Gloria Swanson drinking alone in the bar
of the Royal Hawaiian, 1927.
I saw white-gloved men bowing low
outside black limousine doors.
I was there when they dumped sand at Waikiki, a fake beach.
I am here today with the vain and useless things:
seawalls, movie stars, deck chairs, all
briefly gorgeous in the pink sunrise
at hotels that grow higher
every year until it is impossible
to remember the beaches
without them.
