to State, past Lake, to follow a melody drizzling
melancholy into a Chicago night, lakebreeze
a caress of yearning, for Yesterday, yay yay.
I am drawn to this: a busker, his stage the entire
street, strumming a guitar, his voice soaring over
the traffic hum as he begins, Here Comes the Sun.
I lean against Walgreens, with homeless mother
and child. Rowdy teens cross over, hurtling
hooded, they circle and zoom, surround him,
shouting Beat It! He smiles, and complies.
Jackson’s Beat It, Beat It, wickedly segues
to Weird Al and the boys shout Eat It!
the music unceasing on this easy
congregation of grace. Evening news
scrolls on the ABC marquee Death Toll…
but we dance. We sing with mingling, joyous
breath, over this transient field of pure joy.