small hours
A poem by David Colodney

small hours

at midnight two middle-aged lovers stare
into Biscayne Bay aware nothing lasts.
not the sheet of stars above them, shimmering
in the heat. not time. not even the bay itself,
that sheath of water supine under rubber clouds.
how could they last when she cascades
in moonlight, aurora in neon, & he slingshots
across aqua until he lands on a cloud at dawn
when the sky looks like guava slathered
on shadows? but they know midnight divides
& they know this will end. the question is when.
the other question is how. yes, I know,
that’s two questions. I’m just the narrator,
third-person omniscient & I don’t grasp
what omniscient means. maybe they crash
& burn like a wreck on the final turn
at Homestead Speedway. maybe it’s slow
like sorghum: first goodnight kisses stop.
then they drift further apart on their bed.
tv drones him to sleep in a living room chair
while upstairs she flips side to side, switching
the blanket on & off like a nightlight.
then? that’s another question. they’ll
have that talk & they’ll argue
about who that book belongs to,
who owes what bill, how this even started.
or why.

About the Author:

David Colodney is a poet living in Boynton Beach, Florida. He is author of the chapbook, Mimeograph (Finishing Line Press, 2020), and his poetry has or will appear in multiple journals. A two-time Pushcart nominee, David holds an MFA from Converse College and has written for the Miami Herald and the Tampa Tribune. He currently serves as an associate editor of South Florida Poetry Journal.

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