After dumping my old Schwinn

on our bungalow’s ragged patch of lawn

I spied Daddy

scrunched against the front door

long legs crossed at the ankles

head slumped

against his chest.

Didn’t need to be told

he’d failed to get a job

at the steel mill across the river.

Fewer of its huge stacks

blew billowing smoke

into the grey-streaked clouds.

Rusty barges

tied to its piers

toted less and less cargo.

The Southside of Chicago

no longer prospered—

died a little more

each day.

So did

Daddy.