Michael Lee Johnson

Chicago

I walk in a pillow of cinder.

Flames apart from this night still ignite.

I am still determining where I live in a yellow mist,

muddled in early morning white fog. 

I lost my compass in a manhole, dumped, dazed in thought.

The L trains still flow on decrepit tracks.

I toss ruminating imagination into Lake Michigan.

A loyalist at heart, Chicago will have no mercy, memory of me.

I will decry my passing and die like the local city

Chicago River rats, raccoon divers, and smog.

Mayor Daley hardly remembers his own name, less mine.

I lie to daybreak in shadow grass.

Sins stick on my body like bee honey.

This old Chicago, Chi-town, grungy streets,

elderly brick buildings shagged out.

Apart from the moors stapling down

luxury boats in the harbor, 

let's not be fooled on any night,

Al Capone still rules this town.