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...
Continue reading...