Growing up, the Chicago skyline
demanded imagination: my dad arched
his Midwestern back to sell us on Sears—what
my kids would call Willis, stepping out
on the 103rd in suspended boxes,
seeking reconnaissance of John Hancock,
once the signature of all heavenly architecture,
trumping the Empire State for the claim
until stark Standard Oil marbled
the score: Chicago now towered beyond
its own dreams. Malaysia, meanwhile, Shanghai
and the Burj Khalifa Dubai would coolly
upend the scene: maybe Midwest
Asian dads had due reason to bend their
backs Myrtle-the-Turtle style (blast all the burp)
and maybe Chicago needed a boost to get
back on its track: enter Trump—a
ludicrous way to get politics done, a name
that does nothing good to no one, even Ivana his
erstwhile bride—she’ll do just fine waiting
in line for the bail when the bedrock
breaks. And it will, whether this millennium
or the next. As middle child (here see me Trump)
deflecting the lightning that’s bound to seek
wise old John Hancock & Willis anew,
I’m out of the Loop—these towers don’t do
anything to a Midwestern brother who gallivants
in and tiptoes out, quick-as-white-lightning,
to let the new skyline speak for itself:
Trump has his attention, but notably nature
draws double the bolt to the north and the south:
Willis and Hancock are duly recharged, and
Dad (in his grave) can relax his back.
Chicago has honored its volts,
and skyscrapers all are
blips to our notes.
No comments:
Post a Comment