Damen Stop

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
     so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

--Carl Sandburg--

A rickety ride

on a the Blue Line to Bucktown.

Snow falling on the city as we grind up the self-imposed hill

as the train goes from subway to elevated

and the city opens up down below both windows:

small wooden decks with neglected grills,

graffiti only a commuter will see

and no eye contact,

head phones,

small quiet conversations,

people concentrating on books

as each stop is announced

and suddenly its Damen--my stop.

Platform made of steel,

covered in creaky weathered wood

with grey snow pushed up into corners

and the crowd steps off the train into weather,

windy, wet, wintry weather

and we wind our way around an equal number getting on

and we march in asyncopation,

bottled up behind a big, lumbering black woman,

carrying too many bags to make these slip-steel steps

something navigated haphazardly.

She slips...

and the air from the rush hour commuters withdraw in one long, uniform gasp.

No one,

no one steps around or over,

even people down below her stop and crane their necks to check-in.

"Are you okay?"

comes a muted question from someone on the Damen stairs.

She mumbles, then lumbers up,

with the help of some stranger  as he helps her down the steps.

Chicago...Carl Sandburg calls you the "City of Big Shoulders,"

and today you showed me why.