It bugs me I don’t miss Chicago

 

It bugs me I don’t miss Chicago.

I wish I could manufacture homesickness

drum up some longing, but it’d be hollow and she’d know the difference.

Because you can only fake it for a minute or two.
Come on strong, but not too strong.

Don’t get pushy already. Try too hard and I’ll call ya later.
Just relax yourself and do your goddamn job.

So even though homesick I ain’t (so she would have me say)
I love the honest memory.

Grousing about the price of whatnot in ironclad vowels.

The gridwork. The brickdust air.
Humming Old Style signs framed by glass block and strings of Christmas lights. Railroad apartments with gray-scrolled radiators and black-and-white bathroom tiles the size of oyster crackers.

Piss. Fumes. Grilled onions.

Goofy. Clown. Jaggoff.

You’ll get burned in the bleachers but at a double header you’ll need a jacket by the second seventh.

They don’t play much in October, but it’s always been an October city.

It bugs me I don’t miss Chicago.

I dreamt my daughter’s death two nights

The first night a car. The second the bottom of a hotel pool.

Each time I have her.

Crushing her with a desperate grip. She’s hurt but safe until I let go, falling sideways off the curb, or into the water and then I have no voice, no legs.

I listen against the cold, groaning house for her breath.

What help is faith? What worth is prayer?