This Is Chicago

I know quite well that this was not your stop.
It was the Red Line, not the distant Blue
To which you traveled. But that's but a sop
To my poor memory, which fills with you.
I think of how you used to leave your pew
A little early, with me running late
Or if I should be early, then a few
Minutes later, just to compensate;
How we would wander to the beach, or wait
For roommates to arrive and share a meal;
How you would share your tales of Elevate
And make the kids I'd never met so real.
I think of this each time I see the sign
That says Chicago on whatever line.