Say Hell’s a rerun of Miami Vice
where a D-list celebrity supplies
a lackluster voiceover, describes Tubbs
at a precinct desk doing paperwork,
while Sonny—in a knockoff Savile Row—
sits on a rooftop patio eating
a wilted Waldorf salad. that’s the plot.
there are no explosions or concussion-
induced alter egos. no IRA
assassins or Calderone vendettas.
no Cubans, cars, or cocaine in the air
tonight. here you’re a periwinkle
jacket, wrinkled on a closet floor. here
you burn in the swale of waiting for more.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #53: Word Salad, which required that the words bolded in the text must be used as given.
