The Pacific Room

In the stands at Wrigley, the wind brushed through
on a barker's voice carrying the flavor of hot dogs,
beer and cigars.

The far hedges drank up the outfield fence to the
sound of cracking bat and peanut shells; the sweep
of the crowd dusted with heartfelt profanity falling
like magic dust from three rows up.

The sun, shining rust and golden through ball park
chardonnay, leaked behind the sports bars and roof top
cafes; sneaked down to the pier where a thousand
little boats turned crimson. luffed; their full saild
bled a smart, lavender orange into rippled water.

The city woke beneath my 9th floor perch. The lights
of the Ferris wheel, impatient horns and the El
clack-clacking dripped under the doors onto paisley
lobby carpet.

Sounds and exhaustion chased me to the window,
shadows crossed my feet,
above Michigan avenue I watched blue and blue converging.