These are your skyscrapers. There are broken windows on the top floors. The glass litters downtown sidewalks. The crowds trudge beneath concrete behemoths. The streets are wind tunnels, and the buildings have no place for us to hold on.
The voices and the people are blown away. The golden parachutes floated down like dandelion seeds, beautiful and insidious. Spreading and sprouting back up from the ground, weeds, to choke us.
We who sleep on sidewalks, we who live and work on the bottom floors. The elements are conspiring with the oppressors, the icy breath over Lake Michigan cuts through the cheap coats, and every step is a puddle to soak our feet. As we look to the sky at buildings towering over us.
These are your streets. These are the tree lined boulevards and litter stained highways. And soaked gravel in red, and innocence which keeps draining out of bodies, younger and younger.
The buses are never on time, and the people are always waiting.
There are shopkeepers out front on main street, and people selling where there are no shops. Hawking wares to help you get through it all. Sneakers wrap around the phone lines, telling us who runs the conversations.
And on every corner there is a convenience store. And gasoline and sandwiches and pizza puffs, but never enough to make full. We who do not drive, are always walking down, making our way. The faces and the buildings are hollow. And the air is a violent fog, every breath insecure, uncertain of safety or place in the world. Though there could be no other way to travel.