Nothing
captures Midwestern melancholy
quite like Lake Michigan.
In the winter it is
a gray lake locked in ice.
Morose and morbid
sitting and waiting like
an ashen flounder covered
and lying in wait
to gobble
up some unsuspecting ship and her
naive crew.
Smoldering summer comes
with no spring or fall
between,
and under the waves
the rotting garbage
and medical whatnot, all
bent and buried beneath the
torrid, boiling waters. The
aquatic life has quit. The sandy
bottom is nothing but a
Siberian steppe.
So enough with the façade,
wash ashore your dead fish
and shitty waves. All your
beaches are closed
anyways.
