The sound of rain rises
and rolls up my window.

A herd of wild
sea horses gallop
through bubbles
of an overcrowded tank.

The gods of steel
have rusted to the belly.
Their monolithic structures
are falling-
falling.

Detroit is no place for children,
unless you keep their gun loaded.

So waves of poets
crash on the sand
of wondrous places
with a pen in their hand.

With songs on their tongue,
and dreams in their eyes.
There is still inspiration
in the friendly skies.

So do yourself a favor
and buy American,
because the old Detroit
is now the new Japan.























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