Issue
#9 

a poem by Shawn Misener

The Shortest Route  

Traffic jam on the the Southfield. Penned in like sheep by cement 
barricades. To drivers they resemble cardboard, to others, prison 
bars. Detroit mushrooms out to the East, dead soul and metallic 
foundation. A man climbs aboard his idle Mustang, replete in Red 
Wings home jersey and certified mullet. He raises his hands in the 
air and calls to God. Someone barks at him: Get the fuck back in 
your car. The man looks around, arms still high, and calls to the 
Lord again. Someone else: He can't hear you here, man, this is 
Detroit. The man pulls a pink slip from his cutoff shorts and waves 
it. He screams: Tell me where to go, Jesus. The low-hanging mud 
sky splits, uncovering half of the sun, rays spring down to the pave-
ment like stage lights. A booming voice from above: Canada. The 
man climbs back into his car, turns, crashes through the barricades 
toward the Ambassador Bridge. News reports a red Mustang slicing 
through ghetto backyards, missing the bridge and flying full speed 
into the river. Traffic starts to move, molasses bleeding. 

© by Shawn Misener

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #9 ~ May 2010