Catching the Train in November
<p>The river wasn’t frozen that night,<br />
not yet, though it was snowing lightly<br />
as I hurried along its concrete banks<br />
through skyscrapers to catch the train<br />
filled with silent passengers eyeing reflections<br />
in dark windows. Chicago floated<br />
over narrow depths in wavering ribbons<br />
of gold, and the water was a kind of ink<br />
I’d never seen before. It was grave,<br />
and reverent, that first snow melting<br />
into its uneasy surface — gone this time,<br />
to be remembered in marble skin<br />
a month later. But it was still November,<br />
and the river was bursting with a thousand lights<br />
as fervent and eager as an empty ballroom<br />
while I caught the train, out of breath</p>
<p>and brushing the snow from my hair.</p>
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