To Henry, On Leaving Chicago

This is a poem I wrote for Henry as we took off from Midway when we left Chicago on 7-6.

Boy of mine,
sleeping high above the city
you are leaving behind.
You probably won't remember
the bend of late day rays
on the lake--
the glisten of a bean--
the giant towers, arms reaching
to
the
sky.

This place, absent in your geographic history,
will be a destination,
but never home.

What will you do with all the
space and silence--
with no El train,
blaring horns,
rustling wind,
to lull you to sleep?