Indian Summer on Mackinac
The sun wants to claim me,
rising lazy out of the lake like a banker,
bright and late, nearly eight.
As if the hydrangea cared, robed in purple
against just this,
your late rising, early to bed.
Where are the Indians now?
Duck’s in his hut carving canes.
Mrs. Green I see sitting on a bench.
Trish of the long legs under high cheekbones
visits the post office, works at the bank.
O sun, you have seen this coming,
dripping cash over us, gold and silver,
currency never gathered, never spent.
Why me, witness to your legal claim,
an old man dithering on an old porch,
refusing to move, waiting for snow.
—James P. Lenfestey, Minneapolis, MN
