The fanned ochre stripes across glistening grey sheets
is uninhabited land, the snowdrifts outside the window
are strata-cumulus two miles below, and that's not
a white-beached bay, but a reservoir with suds
around its edges, while the green ink sponges
and pop-up houses are an infinite suburbia.
Here, off the Loop, the Franklin Center's Art Deco
fools, as does Union Station's ticket hall,
it's black and silver fountain a nineties mock.
And in a motel on LaSalle, your construct of a smile,
a deceit.