Hanging With Harrison

Eighty-five degrees became fifty-five
when the cold rains came from the

T-shirts and shorts
were turned
in for sweatshirts and blue jeans.
Windows were shut, water for tea

heated on the stove and the man,
cup in hand,

said to himself, it feels
like the U.P.

I think I’ll join Jim Harri-
son for a short story.

He fell asleep on the
couch just as B.D.

was going to jump Shelley’s bones
in the motel behind the knotty pine saloon.

Not even the thought of what was soon
as the next page could keep him awake.

The man knew Harrison would be around
with a cigarette dangling from
his lips and a
whiskey in his hand
when the he
would awake.

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