The Chicago River drawbridge is up.
A moment of danger, repeated time
Overruled by STOP letters in their cups,
And a redundant Do Not Enter sign.
We wait because waiting is why we wait,
Nothing else in the world to do for long.
The fitful Spring air whistles through the grates
On the bridge, ageless sotto voce songs,
A sound of life beyond decay, so sweet.
The Windy City cannot hold its tongue.
The drawbridge collapses into a street,
And the crossings begin, of wheels and feet.
The boats below sail out toward Michigan,
Now crossing to then, again and again.
Michael Antman has been the editor of this
sonnet sequence since its inception almost
5 years ago. He's read and advised me on
every single poem.
This is his first image to appear in the sequence,
and I've made it the 250th sonnet in gratitude
for his patience and wisdom: il miglior fabbro.