Short days in Michigan
the leaves colors
reminds me of the hills
in that faraway island during the
dry season – the red earth
hot underfoot, crackles
as the leaves drop
making a mound
Smoothies drunk in a café
contain this richness
The liquid slides down
the throat and a coat is buttoned
Outside the air freezes
Smoke blows from the mouth
Cigarette tossed on the ground
The old man mowing his lawn
Wearing his slate cashmere V-neck
holes under the arms,
has never bothered
to get the thing darned.
It is the season to shoot
Gun in hand, A-k47 in another
Looking for Rabbit, Deer, Bear.
Billy wears a brown, round, wool neck sweater
that keeps him warm.
and camouflages him well.
No-one mentions the time he was at
The creek – a body floated up, face down –
bloated and gross from
being in the river for over a week.
The sheriff hushed It up,
Billy was his son, you see.
The Sheriff wore a red wool sweater
A Cary Grant look alike
The people of his County respected him.
The sole reason the body story was
Buried. His word was final.
Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of
Molson in the car; Reuben sandwiches, girlfriends.
We’d sing to Joni Mitchell and Carol King—
perfect tunes for a fall sunset
that seemed to last forever. At night, Deborah Harry
blasted from the CD deck the stars shining brightly.
she wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.
It smelled of perfume: Opium.
Then! San Francisco the golden gate bridge
Swinging in the setting sun
Cars in lines drivers behaving
Even though cars had stopped altogether.
No military that we could see
We drove to Full Moon Beach.
Threw our sweater’s off
And with it our youthful emotional angst
The water was cold.
We could very well had been swimming in
Except for the unforgettable Road Trip.
2261 miles of it.