They Will Fall Asleep

The couple derailed by the flu,
who meant to celebrate this anniversary in Hawaii
but are now well enough to stay here instead,
this first place they spent the night as man and wife
fifty years ago

the man at the bar, bellowing
how he woke up just this morning on the beach
and tonight drinks Milwaukee beer where it belongs

the slippered toddler reaching a pudgy finger
to tap the golden gleam of the elevator door

the hunched man rolling peas onto a fork
and his wife edging salad around her plate

the couple with laced fingers, bent towards the band
and the pair sharing a dessert, lifting a single fork

the man honking his nose on a cloth napkin,
emerging to speak of heaven
in a papery voice

the father telling his daughter she has wisdom
beyond her sixteen years
while she stares down at the menu
and nods solemnly

the family shrieking for Marco Polo in the pool,
oblivious to the sky spangled with lights
just beyond their splashing limbs—

tonight they will all fall asleep
under one roof.