"Yet on nights when the blood-red neon of the tavern legends tether the arc-lamps to all the puddles left from last night's rain, somewhere between the bright carnival of the boulevards and the dark girders of , ever so far and ever so faintly between the still grasses and the moving waters, clear as a cat's cry on a midnight wind, the s mourn in the river reeds once more. / The Pottawattomies were much too square. They left nothing behind but their dirty river. / While we shall leave, for remembrance, one rusty iron heart. / The city's rusty heart, that holds both the hustler and the square. / Takes them both and holds them there. / For keeps and a single day."