Sunday Sunsets

Lengthy blueberry skies

splashed with vanilla color

the land is hot and tired

afternoon wind sings and suthers 

Roads fuming down Telegraph 

every car a speeding thunder 

galloping the asphalt laps

on a road cracked and sundered 

the houses we'll pass, may be poorer than others

through ghetto towns to well-to-do mansions

then we'll be on roads with cornfields farther

than our horizon, past our next junction 

A long highway, a Detroiters' living,

long yellow lines slicking all the way down

and radio in sultry tones, wind blowing in 

nothing like a sunset drive in Motown.  

On a Sunday night with a friend or two

with nothing else to do.