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.

Image credit:Zane Lee

Trish Saunders has poems published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Eunoia Review, Galway Review, The Journal of American Poetry, Off The Coast, Right Hand Pointing, Crossroads Magazine, other places. She lives in Seattle.