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Mama’s Miami sparkles –
diamonds in your hand, between
tanned toes and shimmers off
fingers stretching to itch the sky.

Daddy’s Miami is scuffed and worn –
dripping with gang graffiti and
shadows with fingers itching to
find homes in your pocket.

~ * ~

Daddy’s Miami scorches
the lungs, sears sweaty, sagging skin,
burns baggy butts
and sometimes, if you let it,
it’ll burn right into your brain.

Mama’s Miami is warm –
like grandma’s homemade rolls. It
massages the skin with sunshine and
tickles the tongue
with chipotle, chimichurri and adobo.

~*~

Mama’s Miami is cultural –
from Lemon City and Calle Ocho to the
solemn sanctuary of “Sweet Water” Circle
and the bench where Jazz moved over
and allowed Salsa to sit next to him.

Daddy’s Miami is old and tired –
filled with foreigners turning their
their backs on the American language,
only facing south; to their yesterdays.

~*~

Daddy’s Miami is dead –
(or on a respirator). Its bones buried
underneath concrete and the footsteps
of a million and one tawdry tourists.

Mama’s Miami breathes
and pulses to a new heartbeat.
Its future mindful to keep hold of
the tender threads tied to the past.



Holly AKA Red Writing Hood