Like a crisp twenty on a Park bench

I found the following poem in a note that Francine Harris posted on Facebook. I made some (hopefully) judicious edits.

Getting Lost in Detroit

Wrong turn down a street
that feels like an alley,
alley that feels like
someone's back yard.

There is always
someone alone walking
through the falling snow.
You wonder where to.
Sometimes you want
to stop and ask.

I wonder.
I might be disappointed
if I asked.

That if they are headed
to their girl's house after
I've concocted a tale
about them getting off
the Greyhound
cause they overslept
through Cleveland

and figured since
they were here
they'd go to the Casino,

somehow that speaks
poorly of their character.

in case you're wondering,
if I imagined he was headed
to his girlfriend's
after a long day at work,
and walked all the way
from downtown,

I'd be intensely disappointed
if he told me
he was just off a Greyhound
in the wrong town.

I took the wrong train
to Bloomington
a few months ago.

Thought I could visit
Indiana University
in Bloomington, IL.

The cute redhead
next to me
let me know
I was on the wrong train
before it took off.

Unfortunately,
she did not invite me
to stay on the train
and keep going
wherever she was going,

I have wound up
staying in the wrong train stop,
the last bus stop,
or the only stop
at that time of night
outta' somewhere else.

That's how
I moved to Chicago.

It was a bad layover
that lasted. and lasted.

Anyway,
got lost in Detroit tonight,
looking for my boss' house.
Turned around
in bank parking lots,
and empty storefront byways.

Watched the snow swirl
and pile up
like little white blowflies.

Rolled down the window
just in time to
catch a few flakes
on my tongue.