Moving like a letter from Tennessee, Like big Lithuanians dancing in Grant Park, Like an El A-train through a B station. Stock still waving over the tellers' plaques, Audrey C., Louise L., and Thomas E. Seem to be in little danger. Being A nobody, I hear the iambs move. It snows loudly here. The weather radar Provides sound effects for each sweeping arm Illustrating the revolutions and where Lightning would have struck if this had been, In point of fact, an actual and affecting storm.
Peace is but a pretense.
Snow plows slap orange light Against the drawn white venetian blinds, salt against The windshield, snow off the street onto the curb Until the wide gray drifts sandbag both sides of the street. At this hour the city sleeps in quiet white and comforting gray. In a scratched frame below a CTA map. Under Willow avenue, Just before Clark and Division, I memorize your sunglasses Shining darkly in the subway window. The train seats flip into parlor position.