Here in Chicago I sit in the sun 

of an Indian Summer

high on the Water Tower waiting,

 

chapped hands in a visor 

over my eyes, hoping I see 

you in that gown,

 

black satin and grace,

float like a feather

back to Chicago.

 

I don’t care if you stop

by Confederate streams

on the way from Savannah

 

to pick phallic rocks

so long as you rise,

release all your hair,

 

take to the air

and float like a feather 

on to Chicago

 

because this is the last time I’ll sit 

on the Water Tower waiting.

I’d rather go blind than see

 

you in that gown, 

black satin and grace,

stop in the air 

 

laugh like a loon  

then float like a feather 

back to Savannah.

 

— Donal Mahoney