Mass crowds cross the street. Ubers zip by. Trains above roll through town. Drunks fall out of bars in the afternoon. Happy hour has come and gone.

The Great Lake is frozen. Snow on sand. Cars parked at Montrose and Belmont. Lovers taking a midnight stroll. Hand in hand, they follow a path to North Avenue. Standing on a white beach, they look south and see The Drake, The Tip Top Tap, John Hancock, LSD lit in blue. Frozen air sets stars in place.

They talk of old times. Way back when Washington was mayor. The press asked Harold once what it was like to be a black grand marshall in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade? He laughed and said it was fine, just got to carry a bigger sheleighly. The two Northsiders chuckled.

Chicago has changed, the old man said to his wife. Everyone has left for the suburbs. There’s no humor anymore. No one can laugh. No one wants to laugh, he continued. Sad. Where’s the Chicago of Sandburg and Algren? Gone. Nowadays, the city dances to an angry beat.

That’s not Chicago, dear, she told him. That’s America.

I long for JoAnn Piano Bar.