Autumn in Detroit

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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