Sunday, February 15, 2009

Chicago Poem #28

A trailblazer and a felon
walk into a large building
towards a bank of elevators
and wait for the next car
going up.

Breezing past them,
in a plaid sport coat
is a Quiet American
with an appointment to keep.

A muted shuffling rush of humanity and...

There is only room for two men
on the next car going up.

What happens is an overreaching
respect for authority
mixes with a genuine loathing
of anything but the self.
No one will enter the next car.
No one was sent.

The doors close,
three men stand near the bank of elevators.
And the city moves forward,
educating its young kings
to clamor to be sent,
to be wanted.
To wear and where and wear.

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