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 that quiet act

amid my carbon cascade of commercial flights, awe

at a commodified Art Deco mirage, libationary bloat

in the gut, or this 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.