Wendy McClure

The river is green for St. Patrick’s Day. Black for St. Scholastica’s Day. A sort of flat burnt ochre for Cashmere Polaski Day. Gone on alternate Tuesdays.

No matter how long it has been since it rained, a single drop of water falls on your neck when you pass under the trains. A train has never fallen on anybody, but every time you walk beneath them, you are certain today will be the day.

Every sandwich shop in the Loop closes at four. Every sandwich shop in the Loop goes dim and silent. Through the windows of every sandwich shop in the Loop, you can see faint shadows move, but when you look straight on, it’s only car headlights moving through the room. There are no cars.

The taxi drivers speak every language of the Earth, and a second, secret language known only to them. If you ask for Ogilvie Station and not Northwestern, you will never be seen again. This is as it should be.

In summer, scads of alewives wash up on the beaches. Beachgoers politely step around them, knowing that some morning soon, every fish corpse will be gone, and we will be safe for another year. We thank the alewives for their sacrifice.

You have never in your life missed your stop on the Red Line. Every moment, as the train squeals and sparks around you and the faceless masses of other passengers press, you believe you are missing your stop on the Red Line.

The snow is turning black. Maybe it came down that way. You don’t think about it. You just put down your folding chair (where did it come from) in your parking spot and head to work, avoiding the matte darkness of the slush. You go several blocks before you remember you don’t have a car.

The street grid falls apart where the Chicago Fire didn’t reach. What fay or eldritch symbol the seven-way intersection with two traffic islands and a wedge-shaped building form we do not know. Nor do we wish to.