The Onings (The Awnings)

it’s not Paris, exactly
but the warm glow of
street lanterns
beholders of a language that
doesn’t need an interpreter–
a kiss on the lips and
a gentle rain on
statues in the park,
umbrellas unfolding in
unison down the shimmering
stairwell still wet with
the water-drops of romance

I’m not blaming Chicago for
not holding hands with
enchantment the same way that
Paris plays puppeteer to my
marionette heart, I am
only blaming Chicago for
being so close and interactive

for being on my
side of the ocean
if it rains in Old Town
no one stays outside
we just wish they spoke French
under the awnings

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