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The Raccoons of Humboldt Park | listen |
How out of place you seem
ambling down North Avenue,
are you lost or out to explore
dreaded city by the lake?
There's more found than lost in you.
That bandit's face harbors
sly impenetrable eclipsing moon.
Your rings remind me of Cheshire Cat,
one instant there, next gone.
My wife's worry, dogs -- mangy creatures.
The strays will get out of your way
than risk tooth and claw.
But I never thought raccoons
favored Humboldt Park.
Yes, Humboldt Park, ten city blocks
set down on prairie, open to the sky.
On Sundays, lovers wander serpentine paths
when summer leaves or autumnal splendor
dress the trees in colors.
Only public buildings betray the presence
of another power -- graffiti's blasphemy.
Let's consider, if raccoons favor
Humboldt Park, why not other fauna?
Imagine bison thundering across the flatlands
as in days before LaSalle, DuSable,
and Father Marquette, or spy stalking antelope
a golden shadow lost among the whites
of Queen Anne's lace.
Wouldn't it be marvelous if in the lagoon,
beavers carved outlets for stagnant waters,
birthing mighty Humboldt River?
In one generation, time curves in on itself
and the park spills beyond its borders.
White-tails alertskittish, headsupdown
nibble tender shoots, while rusting cars
become ferny forlorn relics of another era
and men, women regain paradise
no more curse of sin's taint.
Funny how raccoons can change a city.
Von Humboldt himself would ever believe --
ivy scaling up Sears Tower,
bachelor buttons carpeting the Kennedy
from Jefferson Park to Stony Island,
fauna and flora repossessing
the kingdom of man
at the twilight of creation.
And while buses, cars
no longer rumble up Michigan Avenue,
manikins stare dumbly at a sky
never seen so blue.
- Frank Varela
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