Motown Dreams

Despite precautions,
despite an arty hand-made cross on the wall of every room--
despite the bus schedule copied down on the back of an envelope--
the wind blows
in January, in Detroit,
the wind blows
as if it knew you before you knew yourself,
like a too-loud aunt resurrected from childhood.
The wind blows
as if it knows you by name, by predilection--
the wind blows
as if it knows and has a problem with you.

Here in Detroit,
we are almost Canadian;
despite the MKZ's in the circular drives of Oakland County,
we are mutts;
we are donut-heads and hockey-hearted Janes.
Look, I'm not proud.
I pick my way through the slush and into the Dollar General,
happy as a skunk at midnight.
I put on no airs--
I like Randall and the honey badger every bit as much as Rimbaud,
and I would kiss a French trapper right on the lips,
right through his six months' beard,
if I could ever find one.

Despite tenacious hope,
despite the redeeming power of toll house cookies,
the wind blows
in January, in Detroit,
the wind blows
and carries me into another afternoon,
as smoothly as delirium rolling
off the cold, competent assembly line
of winter time double shift Motown dreams.
_______

I really do have an "arty hand-made cross on the wall of (almost) every room". I brought them home with me from San Antonio.

...and, a song to go with, which references "south Detroit". They play it at the Red Wings' games and everybody shouts that part. But anyone who lives here knows that there is no "south Detroit." There is "downriver", and there is *in* the river. Take a look at the shape of the mitten, and you'll see what I mean.