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Boxes

By , Chicago, IL
How could these boxes,
Ever contain all of the,
Culture, art, music, feelings,
Being a Chicagoan is a way of life.

You have to be crazy to live in the chi,
Rejoice when it hits 35 in February,
Have a heavy coat out in October or January,
Gloves out in September, or December.

Photos don't stop the memories from fading
They can't capture the smell of tears
Of gasoline of Starbuck's coffee
Of air once its rained or snowed

As hard as they try,
Can't capture the feeling
Of taking the El to reckless records
Of freedom of mobility

Time specific moments,
Aren't captured in a camera's butterfly net,
Sunrise over Lake Michigan,
Bleeding yellow orange and red.

Won't walk to my friends,
Or plan outings downtown
Won't have cross city rivalries
Or more sports teams than I can count

Millennium Park!
Ice skating and restaurant,
So over priced but still mine,
Shiny toupee and all.

Oh the art! Green Lions,
Oh darling Dented honey bun!
Hot dog! Reflective Mustache!
I will never mock you again,

Congress Theater, House of Blues,
Complaining about weekday concerts,
In this godforsaken place,
Will I even have MCR or BFMV?

Real seasons in this new place?
Not possible! No instant transitions,
No mid-winter Indian summers,
No more slushing, no more 'that's my town'


How will I know where to go
Without the lake pointing east
Downtown in my middle like a navel
Devoid of CTA and Metra

Where you from?
South Side! East Side!
North Side! West Side!
Not Cherry Lane,

U of I! U of C! UIC!
Oh how I hated you, so confused,
Now I cherish your little acronyms,
Kiss the tarnished floor on which your students walk.

I will not move,
You can not make me,
Pack my boxes full of things,
Because I could never pack up,
Chicago





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This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

Imara M. said...
Mar. 14, 2009 at 2:15 pm
Cool Poem! I Totally Agree!
 
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