for Carl, of course
I was gong to write about
my city,
barely to the east
an obstruction between Elgin
and the lake
but what is to capture that
Carl did not
still the cunning, devious
and proud mother, it is
still wicked, cruel and
brutal.
beautiful, but
no longer the hog butcher,
tool maker, or
stacker of wheat/
still having glad
handed politicians
painted women
and free killers.
tho, it’s beautiful
and the people who
bent and bend so far
twisted so much
now nearly inhuman
standing erect and/or
collapsed neatly street side
or on park benches
they are the true
beauty of the city,
reflected against the
far reaches of glass
buildings or deeper
through the broken
windows of public housing.
so , sorry Carl, your
poem is still neatly perfect,
it still is as we see
our city,
proud, tall with incredible
weight on our ever broadening
shoulders.
as a side note to Nelson,
if you be in Heaven with Carl,
yes yes yes, we are
still on the make.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 