We had escaped into the empty
weight room of plates and bars
stacked along the back wall,
the treadmill running but
not being used.

Your clothing slowly changing
color from specks of red
oozing through the tread
of your black hoody.

The bright lights suddenly turn
to darkness as maintenance
leaves for the night.
Cast iron smacks fill the room,
we bulk our way through
anger and stress
of staying stealthy.

I know you are thinking
about Chicago,
about the windows
and gestures on State street,
spectators walking the lit street
and through the doors to the
extraordinary tree in
the Walnut Room.

About the stains on the carpet
and a screaming child in the
background,
the ski masks dropped in the street,
and the sound of sirens wailing,
bouncing off the tall buildings
in the distance of the night.