Chicago Man

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Chicago Man
In a vegetable warehouse
on the north end of the South Side
he chews a drenched cigar.
His froggish eyes
drooped over the travel section
of an eastern paper
as he talked tomatoes
with five phones ringing.
I ask him for Mountain Time.
His pizza dough cheeks muscled up
and spat a black wad into a cup
graced with superheroes.
"10 AM," he sucks his teeth.
There were photos
on his desk of family
and friends,
perhaps even lovers.