Chicago. Chicago. You’re a bum wearing a newspaper in the rain.

Looking. Watching.

Old men walk down Michigan Avenue and stare at their feet.

Nothing moves swiftly anymore.

Trains rattle above.

The sky is lit in reds and blues and yellows too. All this time, wondering when it’s going to fall.

Jewels behind bars.

Fake furs stashed away.

The bean watches us all. Reflecting what we are. Shining in the sun on a cold day with feet frozen. We long for spring.

April showers bring May flowers.

Chicago. Chicago. You’re a bum wearing a newspaper in the rain.