Christmas In Chicago I miss Christmas in Chicago though I have never been in Chicago on Christmas Only just before which is beautiful Or just after which is sadder either way I like to walk up Michigan from the museum Over bridges that cross over Water somehow colder than if it were ice To the Magnificent Mile where all The shops I can’t afford are There’s no charge for looking in the windows I can look at the mannequins for as long As I wish to they are free to me Even if they themselves are such captives Of capitalism they will only escape The window displays when the shape Of their featureless faces and bodies Seems to the manager to have fallen out of style Through the great revolving doors Of such stores burst girls laughing with bags At the bottom of which receipts curl Like strips of birch bark in north woods They couldn't picture if they tried The last four numbers are the last Four numbers of their fathers’ credit cards How good she will smell later tonight In the suburbs in her black Falconeri turtleneck Next to the fragrant tree with a glass Of white wine in which the last Sliver of an ice cube wanes From the warmth of her hands No one can say I can’t imagine that Actually someone could say that I can’t imagine that But to whoever says that I say I can