Passing Through Town
Is there any place as lonely
As a Lake Huron resort town
In the off-season of mid-November?
Sign outside the church reads THANK YOU!
Its steeple a record player needle
Set to the warped sky
Barry Manilow ballads
Hobbling from an A.M. station that’s all but given up
It’s just me and a delivery truck
On Route 23
Toddling along as a pair between Oscoda and Whitney
Two boys up there in beards and their 20s
Passing a joint in their rearview mirror
Deer season opens soon.
Who needs a passing lane this late afternoon?
Lake Huron is bristle as elephant skin
Oil jacks pumping in the stalks of corn
Like slot machine handles looking for a pull of luck
But the Big Boy’s been closed for longer than that
The fat boy in his checkered apron
His hand raised to an empty tray
Like the iron flame from the Statue of Liberty
His indefatigable grin still waving me in
From the parking lot mixed of dust and dirt
Next door to the Riptide Motel
Sign reads YOU’RE WELCOME
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