On the 147

From a stop on Sheridan near Foster,
We load a demure, dusky, dark haired cellist
She sits in handicapped.
Cello case,black, buxom like a Botero sculpture has room.
One wonders where she finds the space for practice.

Once on the drive, streets fly --
Brompton and boutique hotel, an ornery prostitute,
Cornelia, lavish restaurant I could not afford,
Then Hawthorne with its brittle resistance to the Puritan.
What's in between Hawthorne and Cornelia?

The park holds many memories --
Night journey with a lover's child,
Leading the way and talking constantly;
My own son's wonder at golden reflections of the lake;
Downtown work colleagues
Bonding on neighborhood things
Ribeyes and crisp cucumbers
Deep in the darkness --
The threats and shadows of the park,
Our ease and satisfaction.

What makes this city work?
Jesus how I love the way we mix together.

Million dollar mile now -- orange, yellow, pink tulips,
So fast that when I look again we are all purple and gold.
Then 4 wrought iron squares of reds and yellows.

We come in all shapes and sizes.
Our discrete neatness is tucked away.
Rhythms spring from plastic tubs.
As we cross the river bridge,
Flags wave.

Profligate, prodigal, extravagant, libertine,
Raucus -- these displays of color.
And from their unrestrained profusion,
Memories of the acres of chrysanthemums
For the pope's Grant Park visit in 1976.

We stood with Jadja in the dew soaked grasses,
Eating kabanose and pickles.
Bruno said it was the first time
He had sipped whisky in a church.
Then the end with fountain rising into the sun.
People in motion as Onward Christian Soldiers played.

We sang, all 150,000 of us, The Lord's Prayer together.
"Now and forever." we responded
That Now I seek
In all celebrations since.

Comfort and security are my enemies sometimes.
It is the joyous destitution where I wish to fling myself
To the arms of a mysteriously provident universe
In which glaxies collide
And brightness feasts.

At Sheridan and Foster again
MacDonald's, Dominicks and old apartments
Jammed with emigrants from the Indian subcontinent.
Idly and golub jub sold in the corner store.

My dentist asked what we work for?
For joy, I think. All of us.
To survive just well enough
To give joy its chance.

Writer's feelings,
Lisel and the 'temples of greed'
Made me want to visit them
And report what they are --
Insignificant commerce,
Worthy of no note
In this journey, this overture
Riotous with color and sound.