No matter how many steps I take
along Front Street the banyan limbs
seem to follow. Hundred-year-old
Hawaiian trees have a history to honor.
The sparkle of stars fallen into the ocean
glitters across its surface; if I close
my eyes I see Las Vegas, driving in at night
from the Boulder City/Henderson side
of the valley; below lies a dark universe
of sparkling glitter scattered across vast
nothingness. Joshua trees replace Banyan.
Scorpions crawl on Front Street.
Lake Mead is filled with laughter now
that it's rained again in California, its demise
and its announced death have turned out
to be premature. Even my socks are wet
from the trek around The Valley of Fire,
a miles-long hike to nowhere that ends
back where expectations began.
Gin and vermouth ease my thirst and city
lights still dazzle. In a daze from days spent
in the saddle riding through canyons with dealers
in uniforms dealing blackjack makes me miss
Lahaina and the Banyan tree that followed me
along my walk on Front Street.
-
W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children’s Literature. His adult poetry has been published in San Antonio Review, Awakenings Review, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Sequoia Speaks, Book of Matches, and many others. He lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
