Rogers Park is covered in snow, the roads are clear
but her lawns and gardens are full of this white matter.
The ice is partially melted but the slush is collecting
right where you need to step to cross the road.
I used to walk to Indian Boundary Park
thinking of the days of old
how the Fox River and another point made a triangle on a map
and this imaginary line was where
fate was recalled
I used to walk to Albion Beach and let the waves hit my face
the wind slapped me like I was its bitch
and the lifeguards would yell to not go there
I would walk instead in a little circle
imagining myself a philosopher in Rome
under the canopy of this stone-henge-like architecture
someone built
with a gravel walking path
I then would go to the beach
and try to look content
as I sat in the hot sun with a book
Then I went swimming
in the giant waves
that picked me up
and carried me.
