Chicagoland summers blister under nails, winters bite through bone, autumn wrenches out the eyes, springtime springtime springtime brings the trout back home. Eli Louie has a job on East Huron Street opening doors for privileged guests in shiny shoes and sparkling dresses. Calls himself by his whole name, says, “That’s what my heroes did.” Nat King Cole Pours into the lobby full of deaf trout in springtime coats. Tilts his dusty, black, thrift-store hat when he holds open doors; winks if you look him in the eye, instead of the little holes in the cuff of his moldy jacket. Usually No one looks at him at all. up The Tourists look up up and the trout scouting for stars and cars and new jackets stare right through you. Hypnotized by the walls of glass kissing God above the sun. Zora, Zora - Eli Louie shouts my name from across some busy street. I am watching skinny girls take pictures of stilettos when they should be eating peaches in the light of spring. Eli Louie He’s always blowing his horn. Throwing music into the crowds. Waiting Waiting Waiting for some kind trout: A benevolent benefactor who will pave his dreams with gold Buckingham Fountain is where I write about the sun and the cellphones buzzing in the park as Eli Louie asks for change out of an old saxophone case that can sing the blues for him when he needs a break. Zora, Zora – He was out fishing for a warm lunch when he caught the ear of some mysterious prince who claims our time has come. Eli Louie was offered a record deal by a stranger on the street and I told him to take it that “we all deserve our dreams.” And so it was he who inspired me to submit my scribbles to the Times and Tribune. But when they wrote back with checks Eli Louie wept in his old, empty, saxophone case and when the Prince never came back Eli Louie tried to ruin everything for me. To this day I don’t blame him for putting me down just when the soup got thicker and the beds got softer and the springtime bloomed in the park. But I wasn’t going to let him take my life just as it was starting up no matter how down he was. Eli Louie had a nice funeral for a man who tried to kill his wife. Or so I heard from a south side jail cell. The Times and Tribune don’t write checks anymore since my incarceration in Chicagoland summers still blister, and the winters bite through my bones, autumn wrenches out my heart, but in springtime springtime springtime I leave the trout alone.
