His Murphy bed dropped from the wall in that Arizona studio apartment.
While he watched Miami Vice.
Ed wash the teacups, wipe counters. clear away his MIS textbooks.
Bight PM sharp:
catching glimpses of Don Johnson’s world between dishes and dusting.
Espadrilles with no socks. silk t-shirts.
Bangladesh to AZ
filtered through pink and palm trees on his twelve-inch TV.
The silver gray jacket hung
beside my coral blazer in our closet later, through marriage, mortgage, children.
until the hangers emptied and the credits rolled.
Now we’re both over fifty.
He’s remarried. I’m solo-our children grown.
Not missing the marriage. missing those moments:
The weight of a sleeping baby. mortgage payments stretching forever.
the busy whirl of young family life playing out against Miami Vice reruns.
I still dress the part-
stacked bangles catching light. shoulder padded blazers and silks.
Ray-Bans pushed up in my hair.
Not for him. but for then.
when our whole lives stretched ahead like an endless Miami sunset.
Thirty years since that studio apartment.
since Crockett and Tubbs painted our future in pastel promises.
Friday nights— possibility blazes neon bright
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