Barbara Southard

In the subway under the streets of Chicago
a man stands in shadow singing acappella
his voice bouncing off tunnel walls—
the roar of a train drowning out
what a wonderful world this would be.
And on a trolley coming back from the Navy Pier
a woman in the back seat starts singing
I love you you love me. . . everyone joining in,
the bus driver loudest of all.
In Manhattan, a man wearing a beret walks
down 22nd Street early one Sunday morning
singing Here Comes The Sun. . . in perfect pitch,
voice rising above sounds of traffic on 9th Avenue.

Sing on, Chicago, New York. Sing to the homeless,
those rushing to work. Sing to the immigrants,
old-timers, tourists, bike riders, joggers. Sing to
spirits wandering through the streets of downtown
Manhattan, to construction workers, rebuilding from rubble
to the siren-wailing ambulances, fire trucks,
the high pitched signals of police cars, strident taxi horns.
Sing in the elevators, escalators,
on tug boats in Lake Michigan, the Harlem River
—all through the cities—sing.

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