Ghost City

by Sharlene Newman

The cold breeze feels like a slap on the face, but crisp and free, like an ice-cold hose shower on a musty August afternoon. The engine between my knees coos at me; waits impatiently, expectantly for the red to go green. Like most Chicago weeknights downtown is almost vacant, with neon liquor store lights and closed jewelry shops keeping vigil. The city sits laid out for me with her wide open grid pattern teasing me to floor it. If you time the traffic lamps just right you can clear them all in succession and launch yourself and machine right onto Lake Shore Drive. For a short moment I'm heading directly toward the water with the wind at my front, gritty streets underfoot and the years at my back just pushing.


Sharlene Newman thinks Six Sentences is neat.