Ghost Of My Grandfather

Ghost Of My Grandfather

I am surrounded
by a Chicago of condos—
its melting pot
getting milk toast.
Lunch buckets replaced
with gluten-free snacks.
Streets with cars
whistling instead
of rumbling and vrooming.

The postwar Chicago
was still around as a kid.
My grandpa Vinny
was like its lawyer,
spoke on its behalf,
making the case
for it to stay.
He didn't make it
for its ruin.

Sometimes at night,
after drinking,
I walk my dog Seamus,
before I sleep it off.
But all anyone sees
is Vinny's shadow,
Mad Men hat on,
revealing a toothpick
so not to smoke
and to help pick out
fatty red meat in his teeth,
haunting side streets,
as the off-duty beat cop,
his badge in his pocket,
looking to scare away
any trouble in his wake.