My father is buried a few miles north of this place:
where Biscayne Bay oozes against asphalt
and boats drift from marina to bay to sunset.
Latin music and multilingual chit-chat blends,
a symphony in cacophony.
On another anniversary of his death, I walk, beer
in hand sweating droplets back to my elbows.
I’ve lived most of my life a few miles east of this place.
To the west, people live under bridges.
My father always loved how Miami looks on TV:
pastel glamor, glistening hodge-podge of twinkling
lights. Neon bouncing off the skyline, a relay
from building to building to building,
dusky electricity under glitzy skies.
My beer is nearly drained. I peer south
over a railing and ask the water if I died here,
would I have died happy? The water offers
no advice, doesn’t even meander.
In this place: the water lies still like glass.
David Colodney’s poems have appeared or will appear in journals including St. Petersburg Review and South Carolina Review. He is Causeway Lit Mag’s Fall 2017 Poetry Award winner, and holds an MFA from Converse College. David has written for The Tampa Tribune and The Miami Herald. He lives in Boynton Beach, Florida with his wife, three sons, and golden retriever.