he’d sit at his desk with papers all astrewn…bottles of air freshener…Suave liquid soap…unpaid bills…an empty bottle of Paddy’s whiskey…and copper cups with metal spoons inside ’em…used to make Irish Mules when he had money for ginger beer…

that desk was dusty…the whole apartment was dusty…bluish gray piles of stuff on everything…night stand…small tables…chairs…never bothered wipin’ ’em down…he’d just blow it off til the fluff hit the carpeted floor…not one for tidyness…

and he’d look ’round at his books on the shelves…layin’ sideways…some at sixty degree slants…others straight up-n-down…Don Quixote…the Holy Bible…Mailer’s, An American Dream…every book Henry Miller ever wrote…books that were bent…torn…stained…like a book should be…well read…used…

but sometimes he longed for the old days when there was a wife keepin’ everything picked-up…clean as a whistle…he’d sit back and watch the game while she knitted sweaters…hats…mittons for the grand children…he missed her touch…

now it was all just dust…surrounded by dust…didn’t know how to start the process of cleaning…didn’t know…