By J.J. Tindall
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
Posted on January 21, 2019