THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE THIRTEENTH

          "You know, I was in Illinois once," Darren told Riley, as he studied the picture of Wrigley Field on the postcard in his hand. "In Springfield, where Lincoln's buried. Great coffee place there." Riley panted for a moment, then swallowed.
          "Coffee tastes terrible." the dog said. Darren chuckled and scruffed Riley's ears for a few seconds before he turned over the postcard to read

DIRTY

(A ballad)

You tell me Chicago is a dirty city

I say you are a dirty liar

Pick up any pigeon and blow hard enough on it

It may just be a dove under all the dust and shit

Name me any other city that burned to the ground

Then rose like a shining phoenix

And the water tower that survived the fire

Is of the whitest hue, no soot from the pyre

The newest icon of this place

Is a spheroid of mirrored metal

You may tell me there are too many cars

But if there were more, we couldn’t see the stars

The winds blow up dust but they also blow it away

Chicago is an Indian word for wild onion

So if you peel away the layers of filth

Through the tears you’ll see beauty itself

You say a walk through the streets

Exposes you to germs and profanity

I say a take a stroll and smell the culture

Hear the languages, study the sculpture

The history here is unclean you claim

Show me a single place in this world untainted

This city grows and it feeds the world

Roots spread, vines splayed, leaves unfurled

Seeds of innovation, kernels of invention

Flowers of knowledge, fruit of art

Growth takes place in the dirt, deep in the soil

Result of care, attention, and toil

Look at the ground, you say,

See the litter and the stains

I say look up and see the sunlight

Setting the buildings on fire bright

You can argue all you want with me

But Chicago to me has no synonymy with dirt-

What’s that? Oh . . . yeah. Politics.

Yeah, you got me there.