One Honolulu's Saturday night saw me walking downhill alone after the
rain had stopped, so the silent bus stop offered me a seat; it didn’t
say a show was about to start. Some seconds later, an impromptu fountain
art performed just for me by a bursting, (un)-timely sprinkler; much
like the jazz radio inside my ears, only wetter. My skinny little
fingers started to tap under the spell cast on eyes and ears. That
wasn’t a bus stop; that was a teleporter to a hearty, smoky jazz club
back in '64.
Countless time passed, the artist
concluded. I was returned then and there; that magical moment ended so
the little boy in me trundled; exactly like when Papa held my hand back
home from my favorite kingdom park many, many birthdays ago.
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Honolulu, May 26, 2014
