you say
you’re lonely in the Windy City

but you never return
my call

I fumble in the dark

searching

for a song that binds us

it can’t be anything
about Chicago

a town
where loneliness
hunts you down like a hawk

and

where raindrops

hit your face back and legs
like rubber bullets

Whit Howland © 2019

Do I dare try
to record it all
capture it
before it disappears


these days it's tucked
back in the corner or
shoved to the side
by beltways and highways

it's called
the Golden Crest
but it could be any crest
in any town the gravy train keeps passing by


an art deco wonder
a hot number
when cars had fins
and

I wish I could
describe it more
but I was not there
and can only look

beyond
the chain link fence
for something a sign
of fire or just

a spark of what it once was
but do I dare try
to rekindle
something we might not ever come back from

© Whit Howland 2019

More a meditation
than a description
of a scene

a window
busy with Christmas
figurines

tinsel
ornaments
and streamers

a tiny tree with lights
stands next
to Mary Joseph and Baby Jesus

you’ve got me on a tight rope
walking gingerly
over troubled terrain

love on one side
hate
on the other

but I come with good news
and that news is
it's been mostly love


Whit Howland © 2019

It was cold today
but my mind was limber
with images

of glowing fingers
and rosy cheeks
so my thoughts

were not of Santa Claus
but of
Father Christmas

that bearded zesty
wild-eyed
ruddy- faced potentate

I went for a walk today
and I got as far as the bridge
but I did not cross it

© Whit Howland 2019

What are you
going to do

the last ones
in the joint

the chairs
pushed into tables

the bartender cleaning
glasses

a night cap
or resignation

that things
are what they are

as you let
those angelic questions turn to tautologies

if you
listen closely

the phone is ringing
it might serve you well to answer the call

© Whit Howland 2019

Is it too late
to ask ourselves

how  it came to this

he sits
his back pushing

into a red
nogahyde booth

his hat pulled low
and his suit

just a little dusty
and rumpled

the drink
at the edge of his hand

something with *****

who is he
and who is he waiting for and

again
is it too late

to back track
do the math

and find out
how it came to this

© Whit Howland 2019

It doesn't take much
to escape

a black suited
thin tied piano man

his jazz hands
pressing on the keys

and blue swirling smoke
as if someone rubbed a Genie's lamp

but the second question
though

just as simple

has no easy answer

where
do you want to escape to

corollary to that

what if you can't
come back

© Whit Howland 2019