Chicago trip/tolls/Red Vines & a Coke/a podcast about Rome at night/an antique land bathed in spotlights and crowds/loud conversations, broken statues, winding narrow streets lost in shadows/wife tries to sleep-
Too-expensive hotel/broken shower/costumed adults running for a party/I’m seeking a Chicago dog/or a deep dish pizza/settled for sandwich/remembering another I had in Italy-
Dirty streets/with beggars and tourists/tall shining buildings/everyone has someplace to be/everyone has a camera/strangely feel guilty by my noncommitments-
Art Institute/I never look enough, I scan, scan, scan…/crowds fascinate me/I spy on the conversations/their casual mole/stealing moments around the moments captured on canvas/chiseled out of stone/moments around moments/I sit & think of that turn of phrase-
I worry about the clock/I worry about my writing and books/I worry about tomorrow/about the day after tomorrow/I worry about my children/the future/I always worry/in all these years it is now a friend-
I will probably always worry-
I should look around more/but I scan, scan, scan…-
I almost buy a shirt-
…and at the beautiful wedding my wife has me dance to Katy Perry and I think that is odd since I will usually change the radio station whenever one of her songs would come on and I have a few drinks and I review text messages from my parents about my kids and read that my son at a bookstore that day knocked over Clifford the Big Red Dog and I feel oddly impressed by that because he is five and Clifford is supposedly a very big dog and I wonder if he had to take a running start and if he screamed because if I was to take on a big red dog like Clifford I would have screamed a mighty scream and run while doing it and then I begin to think of the poor teenager trapped in a low-paying job and a Clifford costume who was just bowled over by a five-year old and I imagine what curse words he thought about my child as he fell frantically reaching with his hands to catch himself on anything and I drink more old-fashions which is a mixed drink I like and it makes me think of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald and I wonder what I would have talked about with them since we would have so little in common save our books but even then they are not the same but we are part of the same club being writers and creators and struggling artists, them at the end of their track, me still forcing along and I get another drink and think of Michael Jackson as I watch my wife perfectly perform “Beat It” with the bride and I rate how much better his song is than Katy Perry’s and I wonder if that comparison makes me old, linking the gone with the alive like me and my Hemingway and then I get lost looking at my hands trying to remember what they looked like when they were younger and I think again of the teenager grunting as my son decided to give Clifford a hug too big and then I realize I don’t think I have ever read a Clifford book to him… ever.
Like clean fresh pavement-
From top hat
The ghost people-
I dub them-
And they haunted
The old Embassy Hotel
I watched them
With mouth agape-
From a lost nightmare
I wish I could remember-
If the world could only be
I would join their dirge
With the faintest whisper of
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