"And summer's lease hath all too short a date."
- Sonnet XVIII ~ William Shakespeare
When evening marches down Flagler
to the tumble of closing cash registers,
the mold of faded bills in the back
pocket of his blue, pin-striped suit,
she will go with him only as far
as the river to watch fishing
boats with their tail of terns and pelicans
flashing their bright wings, like silver,
against the glass vaults of Brickell.
But when night ambles along Biscayne
with the rumble of reggae in his stride,
tabaco and mojitos on his breath,
desire wrapped around his waist,
she will lead him down the causeway
into cooling waters of the bay,
the daily cares sliding off their flesh,
and her dark laughter, like waves,
lapping the sides of the Rickenbacker.