Tattooed teardrops line the sterilized institutional halls for the morning call – hot flesh delivered live from the cold hard streets of steel keeps the iron ball rolling, the silver bell tolling, and the lead still flowing. There is no Blue Line through the grapevine to get you through this lost tangle of time, past Logan Square, still three blocks north of salvation.
Brown paper sack of joy numbs the day from the jaundice eyed teardrops and afros left to lie littered in the doorways, tossed down from skyscraper shadows into the bottomless subway car, left begging for change, rummaging through the hollow-eyed pocketbooks shuffling along the Magnificent Mile. Waste cans filled with mothers eating chips as shadowy teardrops and afros line the golden streets of plenty.
Marbled archways house leather skinned children, as silk-shirted cigar smoke clogs the alley with urine soaked air. Tattooed teardrops line the powder mirrored city with gritty sunset reflections in the broken glass bottles that sparkle like diamonds on the pockmarked playground.