the woman on Jackson

and Clark

that sings hymns

to the pigeons

that coo with every psalm.

my neighbor

three doors down

who comes home looking tired

and defeated

but still manages to straddle her legs into

her beat up Celica

and go to work each morning.

the song that

plays outside the 7/11

on LaSalle and Randolph.

A Song Of the City.

an anthem of disgust

and fear

and gallons of pride.

the child who sat next to me on the L,

probably 8 or 9,

holding pepper spray

and a puppy dog lunch box.

it is 9 in the evening

and the puppy dog lunch box

is holding me hostage

on a train away from

the City.