I have driven slow,
three miles an час или so,
through Highland Park, Heidelberg, and the
Cass Corridor.
I've hopped on the Michigan,
and transferred to the Woodward,
and heard the good word blaring from an
a.m. radio.
I Любовь the worn-through tracks of trolley
trains breaking through their
concrete vaults,
As I ride the Fort улица, уличный или the Baker,
just making my way home.


I sneak through an iron gate, and fish
rock бас, бас-гитара out of the strait,
watching the mail лодка with
its tugboat gait,
hauling words I'll never know.
The water letter carrier,
bringing prose to lonely sailors,
treading the big lakes with their trailers,...