Claim Check

An old restaurant check this evening
surfaced on my desk:
the creased and sauce-stained font
a familiar arabesque,
a yellowed ancient quest
for thatched naupaka fronds,
a palimpsest of hidden walks,
the magic wands of willows
eventually grown to full-blown
summer stalks,
long waves of honeymooners
rolling in, whose future sulks
a step or two ahead of them,
now stretching all the way
from blurry cocktail trays
to my unmade bed,
the sunset haze of tropic snares
in the distant night’s fixed stare.