Getting lost in my own city
I never knew that the trees, awnings, and canopied
Roofs on my walk to the “L” would keep me dry
Like a rain forest hidden in my city.
The Red-Line train filled with White Sox fans
Stopped at every stop, each one blowing off
Fireworks, loud enough to make me forget the rain.
Last night’s party in the suburbs had four of everything:
Foursomes of golfers with gray hair,
Four-year-old kids running in a dangerous circle,
Their tiny hands clutching lit sparklers
As pairs of two-year-old siblings cried.
Four rows of spinning pinwheels.
Four grills for ribs, chicken, hot dogs, and steaks.
Four rounds of fireworks with a thousand-dollar grand finale
Four young mothers, who brought their au pairs,
And a midnight countdown to the Fourth of July,
Which I had never seen before,
Despite all of my time with the privileged few.
Chicago got off easy this holiday weekend:
Only 9 dead and 52 wounded
Compared to last year’s 19 and 101.
That doesn’t count Highland Park, though,
The 4th of July parade, where a gunman
Climbed a ladder to a roof, took his rifle
And murdered Kevin and Irina shielding their child
And murdered Katherine whose ashes were scattered on a beach
And murdered Jacquelyn who loved her synagogue
And murdered Stephen who loved museums
And murdered Nicolas who was visiting from Mexico
And murdered Eduardo whose wife was shot and survived.
The parade route is still blocked with chairs,
Baby strollers, and blankets stained with blood.
The rain made its way to Indiana.
The White Sox hit into a triple play
And lost to the Twins in extra innings.
We could not find the right exit
From the expressway to Lake Shore Drive
And found ourselves alone in Canaryville.
Even the compass did not work.
The rain became a storm and then a flood.
My friend drove true north after midnight
Still lost. Still in our city. On the 5th of July.