Under the shining moon and two early stars – 
Not stars, but Venus and Jupiter I later learned –  
we find an outdoor Tiki Bar, where 
locals gather around an island of cans and
bottles, and silent but colorful TVs nestle high
under a thatched roof. Two massive banyan trees 
mark the front and rear, and gravel paths,
wooden decking and smaller thatched 
roofs define the lot. Vehicles old and new park 
all around. I look for the usual Tiki décor but find only
a single six-foot carved wooden post planted in the dirt
but leaning like it has recently wrestled a hurricane. 
Its eerie faces leer out triumphantly.
After touring the ravaged beach that day,
we six sit high in Adirondack chairs 
around a pocked picnic tabletop, drinking
bottled beer plucked from buckets of ice.
Small white lights entwine both banyans, just to 
remind us the trees are exotic, with their solid
draperies of gray extending down bizarrely 
from massive horizontal branches. 
At the bar, classic rock plays, but not loudly. 
Our conversation and laughter ebb and flow 
for hours, punctuated by the occasional 
moc-moc of motorcycles, their riders parking 
then merging with friends under the shaggy 
shelters that mellow greetings, keeping the evening soft.