We take the train to Geneva, Illinois,

where women in casual silk

laugh in that nouveau-rich way.

My sister & I think they all own sailboats,

lounge in turquoise pools

& eat escargot with silver toothpicks.

We have neither the class nor rank

to fit in here, but we want to stick around

& pretend: peek into the polished windows

of their chic boutiques, linger late

on landscaped streets lined with box elder

& mulberry, eat veal schnitzel & sauerkraut

at Stella’s. We spot a Mercedes Cabriolet

slowly rolling on the cobblestones, sit on

a cast-iron bus bench & wait for the street lights

to switch on. Their beams shoot through

old-fashioned amber globes, form golden swirls

that dance in the air like pinwheel ghosts.

My sister fantasizes about flying first class to Paris.

I dream of going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art

to see Monet’s water lilies. At 8:25 p.m. we scurry

to catch the Union Pacific West to Lombard,

our lusterless town. Exhausted & sunbaked,

we sit on mangled fake-leather seats.