Only Good Times

           I can still picture him, out for a good time.

           "On your knees. Hands in the air." A loudspeaker voice overhead. His eyes and nose water. He doesn't want to wipe at them. He goes down, arms high as he can reach, shoulders feeling like they'll dislocate. Now blue-and-whites converge in a circle. The officers all aim their weapons.
           The helicopter pulls up to the right; the bright light remains on him. Finally one cop yells: "Face down on the ground. Hands behind your back."
           He goes down, relieved not to have to hold his arms in the air, relieved he can breathe, hear. His eyes stop watering, but his nose still drips.
           One officer is on him, knee in his back. His wrists are tied and he’s lifted to his feet with one jerk.
           The helicopter disappears. The other officers holster their weapons. One, a woman, approaches him, looking at him quizzically. "This isn't him," she blurts out. "This guy's not even Haole. What the heck you doing here this time of night?"
           He looks around. "I . . . I was just passing through.”

                                                                                                               Not a picture
                                                                                                               of crushing winter
                                                                                                               but of summer
                                                                                                               gone to shadows
                                                                                                               in rain