Old bus tickets…novels…half used roll of toilet paper…various bottles of medicines and a couple of coffee mugs laid there on the desk in front of him…the clock on the microwave read 4:07 in the mornin’…it was dead quiet…

There were no sounds of police cars outside…no trains goin’ by…weren’t any alley cats moanin’ in the back behind the dumpsters…all the johns in their Dodge trucks…Ford Focus cars…old beaters…and used Beemers had all gone home for the night…leaving the whores behind on streets like Dewald…Harrison…Williams…and South Calhoun…used condoms behind buildings…houses…churches…the Dollar General over on Creighton…they’d all left their mark…the black and Hispanic girls weavin’ home from an all night session…jackets zipped up to stay-off the cold of the night…

And back at the desk he sits there tryin’ to write…come-up with somethin’ original for a change…write a poem…start a novel…get to writing a screenplay… but…he keeps starin’ at those bottles of drugs…the Trazadone especially…there were four or five filled bottles of 100 MG pills he was examining…he’d pick em up and shake em…read the lables…got a nauseous feelin’ in the pit of his big belly…it would take more than a bottle to place him into a final rest…

Then there were the bottles of Welbutrin that sat there as well…blue half used pills that he took in-combination with the Vraylar…all supposed to make him feel better…get rid of sad thoughts…he just looked at em…he looked at em…took a couple of teaspoons of cough syrup and called it a night…

Just another early mornin’ hour…