response 69 of 178:

May 30 17:51 UTC 2000

Returning to Chicago once more
sleep-addled and stunned by catch-that-early-train 
5 am waking
and ready to be pulled brightly out into the sunlight of
bright lights, big city,
ready to feel at home under that skyline,
but first...

...the quiet cacaphony of freight line and steelmill set in.

Gary, Indiana, fragrant buttcrack of Lake Michigan,
rattler of chains, spewer of fumes, awaits.
Not an elegant skyline to be seen, but the contour of smokestacks
pulls the eye uupwards to the morning sun.
Not a hint of gloss, but the dull gleam of rust
and the burnished glow of the lake.
Not a human soul at hand, but pigeons feast,
flatbed trucks convene and converse
and the exploding barrels of gas-carrying train cars
wallow like grim rhinoceroses along the shore.

Not even a touch of familiarity or grace,
and never a brick in sight that feels like home --

but I love it.  I love
the architectural culture shock,
the pollution which swears casually, coolly, like James Dean
lighting another cigarette.  I love the
firey belch of oil-burning smokestacks.

I love the view as we pass by,
and in the haze the entire city seems to be blowing a smoke ring,
exhaling a detatchable pair of lips
which drift skyward with all the cool and class in the world.