Michigan

Out on the lake,
we’ll meet again: An anchored pontoon bobbing
up and down like our newfound bed
and the Woodbridge moonlight as it spreads
in the Junetime, lush and throbbing.
Come let me take
my car down 94 and I’ll be sober—
the interstate: A lullaby
that puts a worry in your eye
when the summertime is over
out on the lake.

The current swept;
and we both stepped
out into the cottonwood forest
as Autumn crept,
the rainclouds wept,
like a homesick lakeshore tourist.
Nature highway, widened breadths,
as the maple leaves crumble and fall to their deaths.

A muffled phone call from a truck stop stall
telling you when I’m arriving—
your Wisconsin red is blinding.
A now-empty loft; a final Dee-troit cough
and no more waters left dividing:
My Michigan blue ain’t binding.
A bout of hay fever at a broken parking meter:
My mother knows that I’m in hiding—
your Wisconsin red is blinding.
No more denials of our Midwestern smiles
in a lakehouse made from split-log siding:
My Michigan blue ain’t binding.
Your Wisconsin red is blinding.
My Michigan blue ain’t binding.
Your Wisconsin red is blinding
out on the lake.