CHICAGO STORY

I remember loving all the gray snow,
fearing the homeless on Howard
Street, and liking the free hot soup
at Good News soup kitchen.
It was one of the oddest dates
I'd ever been on, and you were
one of the most beautiful men
I'd ever slept with. Was it on a
Wednesday? When you sat down
beside me at the small Art Deco
bar in Rogers Park? Everybody
watching Dynasty, and I pretended
not to notice you as I worked on a
dark poem about lust and suicide.

Then you bought me a beer, and
I soon found out you were a
collector of rare German coins
and broken hearts. Two hours later
I was in your unmade bed, and what
we did to each other was so good
and natural, we became lovers
without ever having to say the word.
And when you showed me all your
gold and silver coins before I went
home, then invited me to have
dinner with you at a soup kitchen
that night, I thought you just might
be the oddest man I'd ever known.

So I had to say yes, and there
would be many more strange and
beautiful nights of poverty and
passion - rare coins and soup
kitchens - until you got sick
and drifted away in a terrible fog.
And all I remember is
loving the gray snow,
fearing the homeless
on Howard Street,
and wanting to lose
myself forever in your
deep dark kiss
like the Baltic sea.

Poem © 2016 by Dylan Mitchell