down your lethargic distressways, the rivers named
with dignity — the Stevenson, the Kennedy,
and all the paths aimed purposefully at your heart.
we want to beat with you; the coffee in our blood
would have us flow through these veins to offer you life
but every morning, Chicago, every day, life
is slow to start as each cell of our self must crawl
through the same veins/at the same time/with angry blood
meeting on that hour so insistently named—
unwittingly converging, en route to your heart,
with words, the very rush, of John F. Kennedy,
“countrymen, ask what you can do,” cried Kennedy,
speaking now to citizens, who choose to do life
by committing themselves to fuel a city’s heart
yet sacrificing themselves—to wit, their great crawl.
to you, Chicago, our commitment is duly named;
for you, Chicago, we submit this daily blood.
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