(Lihue, Kauai)

We haven’t been on the ground
for more than a couple hours

when we hit the ABC Store
for milk and granola just as

a lady in a green uniform
comes out with a tray and

a pair of kitchen tongs and
begins transferring plastic-

wrapped chunks of hot rice
topped with Spam and wound

with seaweed into a warm
display case. And though we have

just eaten, and I’m not in this
moment hungry, I ask the lady

for one, and when she moves
to hand me the tightly wrapped

package of not-at-all-good-for-
you, she realizes how hot it is,

so she tongs one to the counter
for me, which I purchase with

the milk and the granola, and two
bottles of Hawaii spring wada.

A lady at the checkout counter
rings me up as another puts

the items in two small paper
sacks and hands them to me.

I walk to the car cradling one
bag of cool, one bag of hot

on a day that has unleashed
a goodly amount of rain, so

the air has that only-in-Hawaii
blend of tropical petrichor and

slightly muggy intensity that
lets me know I’m home again—

in a place where I’ve never had
a permanent address, truly not

kama’aina, but oh, how I feel
I am thanks to a little Spam

and rice and seaweed—
the kind I traipsed down

to the hospital cafeteria for
after another rough night

on the pullout chair/bed
upstairs as he hovered

somewhere between here
and gone—

the one upright and opening
the car door for me now—

as my heart whispers,
mahalo nui loa for landing

us here together again.