Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Chicago Poem #47

I could go just to hear:
the funny way the barmaid asks us
"What's you guys' story?"
The fact that teenagers I once knew
now own bungalows and brownstones
Just to see:
The light switch for the dartboard
put in a wiseguy location
six feet up a wall
with a sloppy paint job
The daily utterance
"just let me get offa work"
The daily plea
"where's my piece?"
Daily, this place was dirty snow
and walking uphill both ways
winds that turned the corner
to frostbite your lips
Your dry lips that spit
"just let me get outta this city"
Never, ever could escape
It closed up around my ankles,
my knees, my thighs, my right hand,
my left hand, my hat.

Montrose Saloon

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