I have driven slow,
three miles an Stunde oder 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 Liebe the worn-through tracks of trolley
trains breaking through their
concrete vaults,
As I ride the Fort straße oder the Baker,
just making my way home.


I sneak through an iron gate, and fish
rock bass out of the strait,
watching the mail boot 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,...