April 17th - Chicago Morning

Blue is the color of this city
Where the wind whips ‘round the skyscrapers
And plants kisses on your face
Like a none-too-gentle slap,
I might add.
It’s the sound of souls left screaming out for sustenance
Dripping weakly from the
Oil-stained neck of a
Life-stained Man’s guitar,
gently weeping.
It’s the taste of the beer drunk here
Best when it’s served up cold,
Sitting lazily in the dark on
some tepid summer night,
like the moon it was named after,
Blue’s the way your eyes look and
The way I feel when I’m around you.
Everything’s been blue so long
That I’ve lost touch
And all I see is orange.