Harvest Moon
Michigan hardens tonight, leaving me to starve under a harvest moon. The corn is ripe and ready for the reaping. Bounty fills these flyover fields still strange to me, though at first glance, they were eerily familiar. The new land of plenty and promise; opportunity and advancement. Flourishing and thriving in the nurturing warmth of sharp Spartan sunshine. But things are always different at night. When the streets are deserted. Save for the pinball shuffling of urban zombies caught juggling their burdens. Be it addiction. Or homelessness. Or even mental illness. I hand out smokes like a malignant Johnny Rotten Appleseed. And I’m happy to help keep the cravings of strangers away. Because I know what it is to do without. Or …
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