Autumn in Detroit:
The trees are red each golden morning,
Crisp as dollar bills
That you stole from someone’s car.
Then comes Autumn’s rain
And the colors turn to gray December,
Dark and full of pain
Like that out-of-business bar.
The snow is heavy, cold
And almost covers the graffiti.
Unmelting, it turns gray
Like the prison window’s tint.
And as you bundle up
In your tick-infested cotton blanket
You smile and thank the Lord
That you do not live in Flint.
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