A city of cardboard signs

A city so clean, buildings so reflective, lake Michigan like a sky dotted with sailboats instead of clouds.

Trying to go back home and hungry

The fountains make faces and overflow with millions of gallons of water, the architecture dazzles with texture and quirks, the rusty train tracks criss cross like lace thrown over the city.

If you buy one I promise I'll go away.

An art fair spontaneously bursts on the scene and paintings and sculptures multiply on the street, ambulance sirens wail and car tires press over asphalt, delis and popcorn shops grow snaking lines of people for tails, and a girl hums a song which gets lost in the rhythm of cups rattling with change.

Please help me I have nothing please understand.

An elevator in the awe inspiring public library holds only two guests. A tall, bent man with fatigue for a cap, getting off at the non-fiction floor wearing odd colored clothes from another time and carrying a duffel bag out of which peeps a newspaper, a jacket, a tube of toothpaste... bing... his floor. Have a nice day sir. You too.

Just hungry.

A street bustling with shoppers, tourists, all manner of folk. People with money walk past shops beckoning them in, bewitching them into leaving all their money inside. A woman with no face. Head wrapped in a scarf betraying her faith, posture curled, seated on a bag. She has been in Chicago two years originally from Romania. Her four children don't have school today because it's Sunday. Her Spanish is better than her English for some reason. Her husband died in an accident. This city is beautiful but not as beautiful as her home. Her name is Teresa.

When Teresa speaks she can't look at me. When she finishes each phrase she risks a glance, turning her shame stricken face cautiously towards mine. Her expression makes the clouds well up and become heavy and dark with rain. You're so kind she says when my hand squeezes her arm. It's only a little, I hope you can find the rest you need. She rubs the small bill and slips it into her pocket. When she glances at me again, all she sees are tears: mine.

Shalom AlaeKum I lost my job need money for rent and food have four children.
That's Teresa's sign. It shakes in her hands and she covers her face with it.

An army of volunteers turn the streets into barricades. A wild haired elderly man seen twice in one day. A helicopter roars between buildings past burnt out cars and heaps of rubble. Four parachuters wobble in the air and land on the street. A sneak peek at Tranformers 3 out in theaters soon. My train pulls away from the station without me.

The birds of the air have nests foxes have holes in the ground but the son of man has no place to lay his head.

A city of cardboard signs with rough edges and finger marks. Black marker scrawls their autobiography. Everything they possess carried in bags with fraying straps. All their hope for a meal numbered among a few sticky coins.

Chicago: a city of three million people. 80,000 don't have homes.