“Off on Holiday”

Wild for once, we drenched and drugged and flung
our sunstarved bodies into brunching and clubbing and
stuffing our uncovered stomachs until Monday. Whole

in the pause of corporate time, alive in the rare convergence
of miles, the dancers glisten with sequins and steam
for Miami’s forty-sixth Martin Luther King Day
parade. Bands are brandishing brass and batons
while, just like in King’s Dream, I am here and not

quite here. The rest file down 45th as I opt for elsewhere
this final seaside morning, the breadcrumb sand erasing
a layer of me. I wander Ocean Drive’s frozen lowrider
motorcade and watch gulls dive for anything worth

the work. Descended from humans who couldn’t choose
to vacate any duty, I’m silently enjoying my government
holiday, two bridges removed of Liberty City’s collective
remembrance brigade. Craving a single day without need

for unrest, I protest. Would King recognize this quiet act
amid my carbon cascade of commercial flights, awe
at a commodified Art Deco mirage, libatious bloat
in the gut, Soulaan sisterhood toasting our own

unlost lives? Would he honor this day? I’ve decided to
relish my civil right to dig a place for myself in the sand
and blacken my skin in the sun. The embrace of any shade

is transient, the way palms cast shadows on the bleach-
washed shiplap of an empty tower. The bronze-backed man
who waits there, guarding lives, is not on duty today.