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. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.