I don’t know what you’re like anymore.
It’s been months since I last set a gaze on your form.
Those skyscrapers jetting into the great blue, askew,
windows reflecting aged jewels of earth hue, streets
complete with passing cars tumbling every hour, languid
lake lapping lazily as the breeze fingers its skin, pacing
trains curving in the Loop screeching and scolding, rails
scratching like violins arpeggio, legs quickly kicking down State St.
trying to get away, foot prints, twos and fours, in the
snow all jaunting everywhere and nowhere each day (eventually
disappearing which causes dismay),
indigo nights freezing what’s exposed, closed Michigan Ave. as
that midnight blanket wafts over their eyes, mustard lamps
dully thrown on empty buildings, rambunctious crowds bibulously
crooning to the moon, swooning conjuncts piecing together for warmth,
dead pier dismally waiting the return of spring, flings and rosy-cheeked
guffaws, wedging lips outside theaters, dinners under candle light as snow
dances and sings on the streets, sirens and horns are the soundtrack once
your head collapses onto that soft home.
I don’t know what you’re like anymore, Chicago,
I’m afraid of what I’ll see,
I may seem different to you,
but you’ll always look the same to me.
