Morning Walk

"Did he expect me drive, all the way in? From Hinsdale, in all that traffic?"

He gestures extravagantly to his companion with a westward sweep of his arm, his fingertips brushing my sleeve as I walk past, too focused on his narrative to realize either his affront or any need to apologize.

Further along a man walks in the other direction, as he does every day, wearing a pricey weekend-woodsman coat, jeans and hikers. His beard is long, full and going gray, his piercing eyes staring out through wire-rimmed glasses. The first impression is of a Methodist minister, a thoughtful ascetic mentally composing the week's sermon, were it not obvious that he is just another commuter on the way to his office. Perhaps, instead, the director of a hard-pressed non-profit organization, trying to contemplate where the next round of funding will be found.

From a distance, the great multipaned window wall which rises above the southwest exit doors of the Civic Opera House appears to be shattered. But with a few more steps the cracks seem to move, and I realize the cracks are actually the thin, bare limbs of a pathetic little tree which stands directly across the street from the building.

Descending the ramp from the station, amongst hundreds of marching figures, a coat is seen with the menacing trademark of Iron Fist, which immediately calls to mind the more benevolent lyric of Billy Bragg:

I kept the faith and I kept voting
Not for the iron fist, but for the helping hand
For theirs is a land with a wall around it
And mine is a faith in my fellow man