The streetcars are long gone,
Old buildings hark back to Chicago Fair,
The parking meters are no more,
A sense of emptiness in the air.
Fierce faces with knapsacks,
On march to and from class,
With furtive looks of curiosity,
Concealed in a passing glance.
Homeless philosophers prophesy,
One with the crowd but stand out,
Coffee shop exiles doing time,
Internet junkies’ caffeine cult.
Unhappy souls abound,
Everyone seems to seek,
People on State Street
Peering, taking a peek.
Cyclists, the finish line on their mind,
So serious about the ‘pace,’
State Street, their parading ground,
Stern faces, as if in a race.
Skateboarders seek attention,
Pretending otherwise,
Street artists display their craft,
The curious linger and browse.
Musicians play here and there,
Singing tunes to stir the soul,
Street people beg for spare change,
With their invisible super bowl.
“The Yellow Submarine” refrain aptly prophetic
In the cacophony of the crowds,
The voice submerged off and on,
The moon veiled by patchy clouds.
State Street, Transit Theater,
By the Square a surreal play!
Where it all ends in homelessness,
Buses come and go like yesterday.
