| Chicago is where the woman downstairs
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| starved herself to death last summer
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| her boyfriend Ted ate hot dogs and wept
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| with the gray rats out on the fire escape
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| in a thrift store chair I drank cases of beer
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| and dreamed of laying down on the el tracks
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| the trains roared by under smoke-gray skies
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| Lake Michigan rose and fell like a bird
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| and when the wind screamed up Ashland Avenue
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| the corner bars were full by noon
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| and the old stewbums sliding down their stools
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| ate boiled eggs and fed beer to the dogs
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| the woman downstairs lost all her hair
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| and wore a beret in the laundryroom
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| I borrowed her soap and bought her a Coke
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| but she left it on a dryer
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| she died in June weighing 82
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| her boyfriend went back to New York
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| the cops wandered through her dusty rooms
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| one of them stole her TV
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| and when the wind screamed up Ashland Avenue
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| the corner bars were full by noon
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| and the old stewbums sliding down their stools
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| ate boiled eggs and fed beer to the dogs |