Remember

Each weekend that you take your children

Through the Wilson Tunnel to visit their

Grandparents in Kaneohe, they see

The people of Kalihi waiting

At the bus stop, feel the air get cool

As the Likelike rises as green

As anything on the island, hear songs

By the Makaha Sons and Hapa

As the car takes us windward.  At nights

You play their games, the same ones your parents

Played with you.  You crawl on the floor, saying

“I’m an alligator.” And your children

Scream in a way that makes you uncertain

That you are anything but a gator.

And they never tire of this tradition,

Repeating it each Monday.  When A-plus

Ends each day, you bring them home. always

Give them a popsicle.  That taste will stay

On their tongues along with the scrambled eggs

With shoyu, ramen with fish cake, and spam.

This is how you create poetry

For them as they repeat these small, small

Rituals that embed themselves to be

Reborn in stanzas after you have gone.