DETROIT

The heat
that causes the
tar to turn
to glue.
The suffocating
stickiness of the
July night.
The roars
coming from the
corner
of Michigan & Trumbull.
The traffic.
the buzz.
The electricity in
the air.
Fans to dissipate
the swelter.
Aided by a cool
breeze.
Never.
Sirens.
Laughter.
More heat.
Thicker at night
if that
is possible.
And
it is.
I miss it all,
do I.
Or: do I miss
what it was?
Or:
What
I
Was?