In your colossal columns of sand and grit are buried, forgotten under barrels of fresh paint,

Kaleidoscopes of vision and neon colors. fast. Bumper-to-bumper on 95.

Do they cover the resting sweat shoulders of a man, tired of work and play

Or of broken beer bottles in frustration from the cruel grueling sun—

And play.

Or the Miami-bum’s back, spot now a shadow, black, of a fantastical deer-child

and of play. The colors play in a swirl of candy color and ice cream, the ones found

on South Beach,

Melting,

from the play of tourists, Cuban-children, and of the people just happy to be there.

God is found in every weathered edge of your buildings, wearing the colored business-suits of joy and surreal happiness

Only found in the tips of the mad painter’s paintbrushes and the cool breeze

Sizzling from their spray cans

And play.

Love is the circularly form of their design and of the mistakes hidden underneath dark-paint.

Look close, stand! at the covered walls,

You can hear the painters tired from work

And play.