Hello readers, another poem for your enjoyment. The cool winds rustle the branches and green leaves softly with the steady goings of cars on the streets nearby A simple stretch of sidewalk dividing them The sky above the people, skyscrapers, cars, and nailed down objects was blue, cloudless, with white edges in the vast, seemingly endless, distance Grass moved along the direction of the volley of gusts Families going wherever they pleased with smiles Irritated mugs of meanness, boredom, tiredness, and excitement danced in the crowds The creaking of bikes mingling with people in suits that walk and talk Dates, girlfriends and boyfriends, husbands and wives, parents and children holding hands in girds of affection, care, and possession. Hearing the beggars ring their jingles of change and crumpled dollar bills in plastic McDonalds cups Dogs barking while walker with their owners Cars honking at the idiocy and ignorance of other drivers, bikers, and pedestrians The sun barely lighting the building-dense parts of the city through the cracks of the buildings The sightings of a man who may be Indian, another maybe from Africa, hearing Polish speakers, seeing women in burkas, looking into blue eyes, brown eyes, young, old, middle-aged, buses, taxis, blue hair, segways, tour buses, pink hair, weird clothes from France, Africa, Germany, Italy, Accents and languages of Britain, Russia, Chinese, Japan, Hearing laughter, children, lips touching, arguments, business deals Smelling food from Mexico, McDonalds, Burger King, Taylor Made Pizza, Big Gs, Harold's Chickens, Hooters, Garret's Popcorn, the Middle East, Africa, Canada, South America, Australia All of this mixing in a solid bowl of intrinsic bindings of a city with a soul Compiling more tangled cords of culture and individuality What a city Chicago is to hold all these variations these trinkets, these people, these sui generis architectures, these modifications, these origins these ends And this African-American boy Sitting on grass prickling his crossed legs, Mechanical pencil in hand and giving lead to papers of a small journal in sloppy handwriting Shrouded by the leaves from the sun A bearded man in a kilt walked by The black, white, and red Manga mountain bike leaning on the kickstand in front of him The boy leaning on a camouflage backpack with too many straps The wind having blown his black dri-fit Nike hat from the handlebars where it hanged to the grass where it lay slightly deformed And the wind and city flowed around him For he was a small world in the city of Chicago.
