My Trip to Michigan

One winter, on a whim, I drove up to Michigan to see Lake Huron.

Big bodies of water had always done me good, and despite the cold,

I wanted to go north.

The south was too easy, not rustic enough for a bold, adventuresome spirit like mine.

When I merged onto I-71 North, I felt the spirit of freedom overtake me.

I rolled the windows down, turned up the radio, and sang along to “Running with the Devil” by Van Halen.

Along the way, I stopped at various rest areas to smoke cigarettes and look for beautiful women.

I didn’t find any, and even if I had, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to talk to them.

Driving through Detroit was tumultuous, with its lofty byways and labyrinthine system of expressways.

I got to Port Huron in the mid-afternoon—the birthplace of Thomas Edison,

A small port town right across the water from Canada.

I walked up and down a commercial street, and stopped in at a coffee shop

Made with dark oak beams and designed like an old Gothic pub.

I sat at a table drinking coffee, and stared at the reflection of a beautiful girl in a mirror on the wall.

The waitresses all had brightly dyed hair, and the shelves were filled with old books,

And wooden gargoyles looked out from above the bar.

I felt for the first time like an independent adult, secure in my body, ready for any adventure

That might come my way.

I drove to the pier, and stood in over a foot of snow, looking out over the water

At the Canadian shore.

The bridge connecting the two countries hung like a giant frown in the sky,

As if a part of the upper atmosphere.

I drove further north, and found a park overlooking the water,

Which stretched all the way to the horizon.

There, I watched the sunset and wrote driveling poetry.

That same night, I drove back down to Detroit and walked around downtown.

I passed the ice skating rink, where happy couples skated by holding hands

And little children took careful strides on their own, away from their parents.

I happened upon a dejected bum, and bought him a meal.

He sat and ate a coney dog while I recited him poetry.

I gave him twenty dollars for a cab, and he embraced me.

That night, as I lay in bed at the Holiday Inn, I thought about this bum

And the gift I had given him.

An unfamiliar peace fell over me.

The day felt complete.

I soon fell asleep, and when I awoke,

The sun’s rays were just barely turning the sky a light shade of blue.

I got dressed, packed my things, and went home

Knowing that life had more in store for me when I needed there to be

And time is not measured in years, minutes, or seconds—not when you are truly alive,

But rather moments shared with those who need you the most

And the eternal love that lays so often dormant within our souls.