La Ciudad de los Hombros Grandes

Loving Chicago is like French kissing a clay flowerpot.

Swarthy awnings yap about water bugs.
Jackhammers sneeze like bedridden mandarins.
Antsy pigtails jump double-dutch, out of breath.

Augie March and Sis’ Younger speed date at the ‘Bean’.
Stubby manholes pant like sloshed boars.
Red Line L’s chuck barrel-chested moons to Howard St.

Autocratic streets squeeze into dirty blue jeans.
Sailboats on Lake Michigan wade like tiny gods carting groceries.
Sassy chickens high-step through empty crosswalks.

“Dame una quebrada!” decries a peanut peddler.
“Ain’t no big thing,” clucks a hipster in yellow pumps.
“Emma Goldman lives!” brays a grunge band on South State.

Billboards crate Old Spice and Little Village cermitas to go.
Free jazz jaywalks between parked cars and fried catfish.
And everywhere, gargoyles thumb their noses at passersby.

Front page image courtesy of David Salafia .

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