Short days in Michigan
When the leaves turn to
colours of the earth.
The old man mowing his lawn
Wearing his slate cashmere v-neck with
holes under the arms, has never bothered
to get the thing darned.
Billy used the season to shoot
He would walk out into the woods with his Colt 45
Looked for Rabbit, Deer, if lucky, a Bear.
He wore a brown, round, wool neck sweater
that kept him warm.
It also camouflaged him really well.
No-one mentioned the time he was down by
The creek – – a body floated up, face down–
bloated and gross from being in the river for over
The sheriff hushed It up,
Billy was his son, you see.
The Sheriff wore a red lambswool sweater
to suggest authority, or perhaps, danger? and to keep visible.
He was beautiful to look at – A Cary Grant—with manners.
How us County people respected him.
The sole reason we never pursued the body story.
His word was Final.
Me, Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of
Molson in the car; Ruben sandwiches and my best girlfriend.
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.
We did not need the moon or headlights to show us the way.
My girlfriend wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.
It smelled of Opium. I wore a cashmere jersey
in lime green.
We drove for days hitting the west coast
Got down at Full Moon Beach.
Threw our sweaters off,
and with it, our angst spinning emotions
Jumped nude into the Pacific Ocean
The water was cold.
We could very well had been swimming in
It was worth it.
For the Road Trip.
2261 miles of it.
NS May 7th 2017.