In the thumb of the Michigan mitten

by Mark James Andrews

the afternoon sun kept breaking
through the maples teasingly opaque
but luminous like a Degas canvas
if only racehorses would parade
down Cottageland Road
high stepping in their nervous coats of silk
for a wager as I crack the Remy Martin
seal for a splash as we’re still on coffee.

We recline in a languid balance
on this canopy 3 seat swing
plotting to continue our secret nightly pruning
of the neighbor’s low hanging branches
which trespass on our view of Huronia blue
300 feet down the track
when they come skidding up their drive
in a dusty red Hemi Ram Quad Cab

killing our field of ten fillies and mares
at post time while blotting our canvas
of Degas with late model Dodge pick-up
in a mad scramble of unloading tool boxes
PVC pipe and CLANK dropping a sump pump
screaming for God to damn it all to hell and
flashing a monster ring of keys under our sun
to finally disappear into their summer home.