The puddles in front of Speedy Muffler King request
          your presence, as do I. Your province, they glisten
for you (as do I), archipelago of oil and water lowly
          as a lentil, the manna of mourners—those wise in
matters of parable say, “the lentil has no mouth,”
          so survivors should not open theirs to protest death. This
empty parking lot preens, as would any pacific
          frill, mesa, alp or fjord, any lofty emblem called on
to connote you, stand in as your stunt double while
          homage is paid—we can do that, too, here at
Orchard Lake and 13 Mile Roads, orchard long plowed
          under and macadamized for the chassis of progress.
The lone mechanic who fixes mine asks if we, ‘93
          Ford V-6 and I, have somewhere to go, and I say yes,
but know that right now, I’ll content myself with
          reaping the mundane in your praise—what is love,
at its best, if not ordinary? When time consents, 
          when I’ve repaired all I can in one visit’s camber,
I’ll defy the sublime and come home, in protest
          of all things mournful that I’ve gathered in too much
ascent and descent. I will consume the legume with 
          no ears, ignoring plangent jeremiads of the road,
and will shine like sapphires in your presence, oh
          my accustomed, my of course and again, my stew.