Nightline

If a good day were a person It'd be Saint Nick waving that patchwork cap at the corner of S Dearborn and Van Buren and strolling past that sunken rhyming man who lets a lullaby out of brass has no idea. Battered down by tin coins and tobacco spit and I was already late.

In the darkness where snarling children roam up and down the seats you could almost hear the gulls circling my favorite willow tree alone off the shore of Loyola beach. When we're stuck and the conductor comes over the air to give some space for the shadow of whoever caught the third rail. The man sat across from me says "Whatever bleeds bleeds". What are the odds of that.

I follow your fingers kneading my back so I can ignore your eyes practicing as if this isn't the last time I crave something handmade. Breaking bread and early to bed the coffee rests tasteless and in the shower I dig and scrape. Waiting to confess every wrong. Waiting to be undone.