Five Trunked Tree

Day care center with an alley bound play pen, a chain link fence holding in the children, covered sides by a Chinese restaurant and a dollar store.
Leveled fields of former prosperity with tags on top of tags.
Steel, wire and tubing.
A winter home made from abandoned scraps: parts of a roof, structure, support beams.
It sits next to the city crematorium.
A still life of spokes, boxcars and wheels behind the eclipsing water tower until the new condos spark light from behind their thick, red brick walls while a fiberglass shark waits in line at a taquería.
Spaghetti ramps over the canal while a new turnout of secret after dinner messages are being led out the door.
The last thing I see before I fall asleep is the half inflated football on top of the bus stop canopy at Halsted and Archer.