From the tall ships that would be so regal and true
were it not for the outboard motors pushing them down the lane,
to the mile of perfectly empty private beach,
or the water too cold to swim in despite the blazing sun,
or the raccoon, wet and delirious, clinging to the middle rung
of an emergency ladder on the pier, snagged by a DNR man with
a long snare on a pole and stuffed hissing and growling
in to a stainless steel carrying-box, where does one start?

Three Words, actually,
I think:

Fuck South Haven