I’m sitting on the roof of my building watching the sun go down into a terra cotta horizon. Chicago is silent other than the drone of the a/c machines and I’m surrounded by a mix of old an new. Bourbon & ice in a mason jar. A ballpoint pen and my moleskine. My dented 2002 Canon and my new cheap but effective Motorola.
The Pink Line rumbles past the United Center and I’m thankful that I don’t ride the El to work anymore.
Wafts of burgers and charcoal flavor the air and I think of last summer, which smelled like Swisher Sweets alone in my stinky, hot apartment.
Bugs swirl around pinkish lights and I’m thinking of Fresnel lenses and trips, long gone, to Lake Trinity.
The Green Line is something very different for me and for someone who gets off at Cicero. The bugs get denser and the Northern clouds take me back to tornado weather in Oklahoma, during the summer of 1986.
I’m back from daydreaming of my own condo, someday, and the idea of having my own agency. Thoughts shift to the uncertain as I look East to the foreboding skies that have been drained of the day’s energy.
Five dollars go off in a puff of gunsmoke to the North, somewhere on Ogden.
My golden, illuminated West is slowly dying, but a lone lit window apes Xanadu’s door on the adjoining apartment building.
Less light in the West. Streetlights resume their nightly responsibility.
Time to stop writing and just watch.