Good Night. Thanks, Dylan Thomas.

Mexicans were talking outside; some kind of part English, part Spanish talk; he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He watched from the back window as a group of them, three or four, sifted through garbage and stuff in and around the filled dumpsters. There was very little left.

They took his old leather sofa he’d placed out there earlier in the week. Took his small television and coffee maker too. The Mexicans took the old man’s metal twin bed frame he’d slept on four three years along with his worn out mattress which dipped in the middle.

But, the most important thing they took was his old wooden desk his dad had made. The old man got it when pop had died years ago. The piece was all chipped and scratched, the two drawers needed to be oiled, but it was a fine desk. His dad used to sit behind it in his study and pay bills, draw up furniture designs, or read old technology manuscripts. Dad’s world was one of math and logic. To him, the final equation always made sense.

The old man felt sad when he saw the desk loaded up on the rusted truck. But, he knew it was time. He’d been there long enough. It was time to see America.

Wanted to see out west first; sleep in the desert and listen to coyotes wail all night. He longed to dip his feet in the ocean. See the mountains.

Then he wanted to go south, through Texas and Louisiana. Spend time in New Orleans, pay for company at night, listen to the jazz out in the streets. Wind up in Alabama, sleeping on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico.

And, he’d finish his days off in New York City. Walk around Times Square, Washington Park, Take a woman on a carriage ride then go softly into that good night. Good night. Good night.

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