Those nights were on fire

By Michael Colbert

Those nights were on fire
after Lana Del Rey

We wanted the beach at sunset but turned right
for the intracoastal, sunset

shimmying along a wobbly plank for the better view.
Lone fishermen

Drawbridge posts catching headlights
so the reflections twinkled as teen girls with ice cream cones

jingled keys to their boat and rode away
into their charmed life, motor churning.

There’s something magical to this city, we agree
almost three years too late, moving here marked

by cockroaches and August / august downpours.
I miss Dong Beach and I miss

this moment before it’s even over.
Salt–fresh from Sunday’s Atlantic dunk

neither of us has rolled on deodorant for days.
It’s time to go. No vacancies

at the motel suites spelling
Summer Sands on the roof

so we go the other way instead
of pulling the U–ey.

This beach town screwed blacklights
into their lampposts and the streets glow violet.

Tonight it’s not Lana but Sam Cooke, Dionne Warwick
and when I could cry, how

beautiful this night has become
I breathe it instead.

The beach still isn’t far.
Only this barrier island away.