The Detroit Routine

I view the broken concrete
And caked salt of Michigan winter
The grey grass peeking
Through mounds of brown
That were briefly white,
Pure as the intentions of
The boy at the bus stop
Waiting for SMART to
Dump him off amidst piston rings,
Air filters, asbestos

I see the man who sits
Everyday at Tim Horton’s with a
Pen, calculator, coffee
Scribbling, scribbling thoughts,
Or figures or brilliant
Discoveries regarding each
American-made car that
Flies by the plate-glass
Or the strays that dare cars
Near the roadway

I notice the garbage trucks
And long, low motels that
Surround my commute,
Cops who fester just beyond
The next viaduct and the
Occasional gas station with
Full service

I mourn the many hubcaps
Along I-96 and scoff at the
Perpetual orange barrels
Guarding piles of steaming
Onyx asphalt that
Grind beneath my Pontiac.
Feb. 19, 2004