Answer songs sell well
Patrick T. Reardon
From her cave, high in
the Michigan Avenue cliff,
Wendi plots the morning
like a military campaign
against many enemies,
visions of the inside of
the flat, brown stone.
The trumpet shall sound.
On the way up, Wendi
sang country chants with
GirlJane at the Immigrant
Aid concert where the
Obama t-shirt was stabbed
by the Kansas flag guy.
All dead shall rise.
Her answer songs sell
well, but Wendi is without
answers. There was this
man, then that man. Now,
her girlfriends, until time
to go home. Daughter and
son, distant, except when
social media-ed. A single
brick on the sidewalk along
Diversey and one at Mildred.
All changed, stingless.
Wendi’s heart skips. Her
skin is a water weight, a
liquid straitjacket. Child
of the Century opens the
book for her but cannot
make her read.
Who against?
Wendi sits in the back pew
at the funeral, as if engaging
with the rest of her life, ring
and all, in the thick summer
air under the plainsong ceiling.
Patrick T. Reardon
7.30.26
This poem initially appeared at Cacti Fur on 7.29.26.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.