White Suits and Wet Streets, A Miami Vice Poem

White Suits and Wet Streets, A Miami Vice Poem The pastel blur of Ocean Drive at twilight, a saxophone weeping through the humid air. White linen jackets catching the neon glow, shoulder pads sharp enough to cut the tension. Crockett's stubble, a permanent shadow, Tubbs' wry smile, a shield against the grit. Their Daytona Spyder, a white streak of rebellion, slicing through the city's underbelly. Dealers in silk shirts and secrets, informants whispering in smoky nightclubs. The clatter of gunfire, a sudden brutal punctuation to the synth-drenched soundtrack of our youth. Miami, a vibrant wound bleeding money and dreams. Vice, a relentless pulse beneath the surface. We watched, mesmerized, as they chased shadows in a world painted in electric hues. Those were the days of big hair and bigger risks, a television dreamscape we willingly inhabited. The echoes of Jan Hammer still linger, a reminder of a time when style was the weapon, and justice, a neon-soaked pursuit. ©bfa042025