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