I should have had my silence

broken by loud rock music

instead the phone kept

showing me the Art Institute of Chicago

and how

I would never get there

before my 6:20 flight.

I wanted to visit you,

I swear I did

it was in my google reminders

but Marc Chagall died in 1985

and his stained glass window

sought all these new avenues

I was scared of driving to;

perhaps I would encounter

that crazy lady from Cosco

who wanted her parking spot

in 1998

while I was pregnant and calm

as she called me a pregnant bitch

for stealing air and her sanity.

Agression does not inspire me

there is only so many niceties 

I can offer

before I wait

for the train to take me to Oshawa.

I can mingle at Indigo

and discuss poetry

with complete strangers.

I can miss my soul mate

by weeks, minutes,

days, hours

and sad slow minutes.

I imagine if I pack my bags

and do the tour

of your body

someone will bring me free

Starbucks coffee again.

After all, I did reveal my guts.

But will you?

You are too busy missing her

to see me.

This is how it has always been.

I am a ghost

dead or alive

it never mattered

to you.

I am too responsible to ever

miss my flight.


12 thoughts on “Chicago

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