The streets of Chicago …
In the springtime of the year you can taste the flowering,
and feel the silky air caress your skin.
At dusk, in summer you can hear the streets sigh with relief
as the sun sets and humid air rises like a twirling, cart wheeling tap dancer
leery of touching down
on the moist, spongy asphalt.
In the autumn, the smell is smoke.
And sounds are crisp, and children crunch and stomp
through fallen piles of leaves.
And pump to the sky on rusty chain swings; head down, feet up.
And winter will take your life
if you don’t know how to sidestep quickly.
The purple sky is bruised and hurting and mean enough to punish you,
you the innocent watcher,
for no reason.
But winter also sings; the voice is icicles; tinkling bell notes,
glittering in streetlights, mesmerizing your mind,
drawing you slowly over icy sidewalks,
searching for the source;
the source of sound,