These beautiful people cages
monolithic in proportion
fill my heart with
a dialectic of contraries.
How can something so epic
full fraught with intention
feel empty and lose meaning?
Your music of shuddering
malcontent in traffic
punctuated by sirens
like the sound of
a piccolo in the Magic Flute
tell me this is not my home.
You, Chicago, need good rain
sweet against your window panes
to wash this self loathing
this discolored grime
from your hearts so that
you can smile when a stranger
fresh from nowhere asks
which way or what time is it.
Chicago your stories of snow
so deep my Mother could not
see over its sides as she walked
quietly to St. Mary's to learn
make me ache at your skeletal
remains that I see today.
What happened to you?
Trash rots on your streets
the tagged clothing of
murderers and thieves dresses
your walls, your windows,
your very soul until you decay
behind the vivid hues.
Chicago, oh Chicago
you are not the dream
of my Mother's youth.
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The war is in your head.
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