Skyline

Chicago is a desert under the glaring eye of the sun.

Skyscrapers rise up out of an endless mass of gray cement

And poke their spiny crowns into an endlessly rolling blue sky,

Windows glittering dangerously like knives.

Cars catch the light and reflect it a million fold;

They are dwarfed in the presence of the monstrous structures.

The highways and turnabouts, scattered with debris

Like so many dead bugs on a windowsill,

Seem to pass on for miles around,

And the silhouettes of the buildings, so black

From the sun it makes them bleed,

Are merely cardboard cutouts when I close my eyes

That will fall in the next strong gust of wind.

If the Sear's Tower and the Hancock building fall,

What will be left of the glorious Windy City?

Miles of concrete in every direction, devoid of life

Save for the weeds and papers and extra other bits

That will billow like the tumbleweeds in a ghost town.