Traffic lights count down
to car horns complaining
over the smallest delay.

Miles of rope protect
the greenness of the park’s grass
from leaving on skinned knees.

Fountains are emptied
of water,
of pennies,
of hopes,
of delight.

The children are in a darkened museum,
next to extinct birds and mammals,
tapping unresponsive touch screens.

“Going up”, I smile
scooping her toddling legs onto my shoulders.

Her fingers grip
a week’s worth of whiskers.

As a grey March wind sweeps
yesterday’s transfers and ticket stubs
into the fault lines of an
unimportant West Loop sidewalk.

“Going up”, she smiles
as the elevator lifts us 103 stories.

Above dilated office windows
struggling for a glimpse of Manhattan.

Tangled in the netting
of a deep blue hammock
spiral jetties of sun-bleached curls
shade the eyes of a sleeping mermaid
in pink water wings.