We skimmed through the newspaper
for the Magic City’s night charms,
then renounced sleep
because creases on our skin did not
own us, and tomorrow
was still an abstraction.
Sleepily, we doused ourselves
with Starbucks Sumatra coffee, extra bold,
until the last musing of sleep was gone,
then dressed in our evening’s best
ready for El Grupo Niche and Jay-Z
to move us, like melting wax.
We skipped lunch to make room
for dinner at Joe’s, where
we filled our stomachs with
crab claws and Cole slaw
and our wallets were emptied
of Jackson and Grant.
Arm in arm we flirted
through the discolored sidewalks
of Ocean Drive, passing blurred faces
staring at us from the sanctuary of
their dinner tables. Lobster tails, churrasco
and rice pilaf decorated their plates.
We forgot the meanings of
no, can’t, won’t,
refusing to employ double negatives
and preferring to stick with
si, siempre, of course,
like El Zorro and Superwoman.
En route to Washington Ave,
we passed aspiring musicians
in crazed street corners
crooning off-beat one-hit-horrors
fit for an American Idol stage
and Simon Cowell.
We ignored the groans of our joints,
the headaches of neon and bass,
then threw our heads back and
consumed Nyquil with gin.
We ran through the sand
and laughed at the moon.