This page has been validated.
12
The Windy City
The library building named after Crerar, naked as a stock farm silo, light as a single eagle feather, stripped like an airplane propeller, takes a path up.
Two cool new rivets say, " Maybe it is morning," "God knows."
Put the city up; tear the city down; put it up again; let us find a city.
Let us remember the little violet-eyed man who gave all, praying, " Dig and dream, dream and hammer, till your city comes."
Every day the people sleep and the city dies; every day the people shake loose, awake and build the city again.
The city is a tool chest opened every day, a time clock punched every morning, a shop door, bunkers and overalls counting every day.
The city is a balloon and a bubble plaything shot to the sky every evening, whistled in a ragtime jig down the sunset.
The city is made, forgotten, and made again, trucks hauling it away haul it back steered by drivers whistling ragtime against the sunsets.
