I have driven slow,
three miles an giờ hoặc 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 tình yêu the worn-through tracks of trolley
trains breaking through their
concrete vaults,
As I ride the Fort đường phố, street hoặc the Baker,
just making my way home.


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