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.
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Bernard F. Asuncion
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