The Chicago beauties are out.
It’s sunny and they are waltzing down Lincoln.
Flowing dresses and short shorts.
The breeze, smelling of hot dogs and asphault,
Blows through their hair like fingers of Zeus.
My creepy eyes oogle as I pass by a slice of pizza
Smashed on the sidewalk missing only a single bite.
Trampled by a million footsteps.
This is not a poem.