Chicagoetry: The Umpteenth Ward

The Umpteenth Ward
"Forget It, Jake. It's Chinatown."

Every January morning here
The light is all vertical,
Shooting low from a late rising sun,
A seething head poking out of its lair,

Nervous like a fugitive.

Every January morning here
Is a month of Sundays in Iceland.
The air is still, the clouds grey,
But the expressway

Is filled and electric trains choogle on.
Denizens of the city-state

Scheme on through the arctic
Dreamscape. A surreal vernacular reigns:
Clocks melt, locomotives emerge
From fireplaces, rivers flow backwards,

Children's shadows stretch across
The whole width of a street.
Steam rises from every nook,
Grey snow mirrors the grey clouds

Like the lake will mirror a clear sky.

Whole precincts of voters
Write in the same hand!
Marvels of an alternative universe
Almost anywhere else. Almost.

Suits with apples for heads -
Jaunty bowlers for a crown -
Smoke pipes that aren't pipes.
Invisible meter maids,

Phantom pothole fillers,
Grandfathered train-spotters
With six-figure pensions.
"This is not a bribe"

But at least voter turnout
In the cemeteries
Is at an historic low.

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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood's poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.

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More Tindall:

* Chicagoetry: The Book

* Ready To Rock: The Music

* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance

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