It is almost placid underneath the rain.
One reads of turmoil in the local press,
Sees only the shadowed face of discontent,
And hippies huddled with the pigeons on the lawns.
But everywhere Chicago echoes life:
The great El vibrates roughly overhead,
The wind turns softly on the scattered crowd,
Bringing promise of winter with its snows.
The endless struggle here is not concealed,
And ghosts of other quarrels linger long.
But most the city breathes with too much life;
It rasps restlessly beside the quiet lake.
And who could fathom it might know as well
The substance of a world too full for sleep.
Jay Cohen