Stopover

There's a moment right after the planebumps its girth against the groundwhere it feels as if we will take off again,as if the pilot made a mistake, is sureto whisper under his breath, "This is notwhere we are supposed to be."

I turn to my friend & say, "I always wonderhow fast we're going right here."The plane makes a sound that says,"Whoosh" or "Yes, More" & I pointas if my fingers are a speed gauge. "Here."

Detroit is just how I thought it would be.When we walk off the plane, the skypelts its blues onto the world. The raineven grays the runway in front of us.

We check into the Best Western &I ask the clerk about a discount.He gives me a look that says,"This city has had enough heartache,"but his mouth says "certainly" ashe reaches for my credit card.

He knows that in a few hours,we will stumble into the harsh-brightmorning to our true destination,that we will abandon this city'smaze of broken industry.