Counting the mile roads back downtown from Big Beaver (16 mile rd.) To McNichols (5 mile rd.) was a daily habit. Pawning gold, and selling hand guns to stranger hands than the two we were given to demand more of ourselves -- but the cold was too old, timeless, patient, observant and beyond our measure. Squatting in those dark poisoned buildings with their broken window mouths, and sharp cloudy cracked teeth. I often would convince myself that if I stayed still enough I might freeze. Out in the night I would count the sounds to nod off: A hooker's high heels The pimp's smoky whistle A fan belt's stinky screech The empty pocket reach. Gutter Stamen to Skyscraper pistils. The higher the mile road The bigger the house and yard Blind pigs, and vitamin C cut drugs and thugs in run down Mansions with stanchions and Doric columns full of working girl's pensions... This city has a carburetor heart on full choke. And a pitbull's kiss full on the face of its children. The Hamtramck Axle factory blues Cass Corridor switch blade shoes And two roads that start together Only to disappear beyond the lights unparalleled from the Renaissance center. Woodward Blvd and Gratiot Avenue Cars dragging the strip, some old, but most new. Across the river is Windsor Another side to the same view. A leaky tunnel, and a bridge away - - from Canada.