chicago,
you frostbit fraud.
one minute it’s spring,
the next, a slap from a sky that can’t commit.
i wore a light jacket.
one jacket.
that was my first mistake.
now look at me—
nose a faucet,
throat a gravel driveway,
voice cracking like a pubescent flute
played by a child who’s seen things.
i tried to speak today
and someone asked,
“are you… crying?”
no, brad,
this is my voice now.
it left me for warmer cities.
i don’t blame it.
i sleep in scarves.
i whisper at meetings.
i type instead of talking
because this weather took my vocal cords
and replaced them with a kazoo.
thanks, chicago.
you drama queen in a trench coat.
you gave me hope with sunshine,
then hit me with sideways sleet
and zero remorse.
spring is fake.
my immune system is on strike.
and my voice—
well, it’s now just
a sad squeak in a city of sirens.