The town of Luna Pier, Michigan,
Is just an ink splatter on a map to the naked eye,
An accidental smudge on the edge of Lake Erie

It’s a solitary exit off a rural highway
A blip across the road less traveled

It’s an unused playground off the main road
Barren from lack of use
The single swaying swing creaks back, forth, and back
Again, whistling to and fro in the lake breeze

It’s the dirty town market, empty save for
A few bums squatting on the doorstep, swilling
Stale whiskey and talking of better days

It’s a faded powder-blue Pontiac, patched and
Speckled with fireworks of brilliant rust,
Saggy upon the oily concrete, blocks in the
Cavities where its wheels once stood

It’s the whistling Erie wind, bitter and cold,
Accusing my exposed face as I sit upon the grey,
Weathered dock and stare at the iron waves,
Making me stay.
Never letting me forget.