Night sounds. Trucks going down the highway. Wind blowing on trees. Maniacal laughter in the room next door. Bottles thrown out into dumpsters down below. A drunk throwing-up. The buzzing of an electrical current in a No Vacancy sign. Arguments in Urdu.

Class was a long way away. Drunks, junkies, whores, wild men screaming into night. Cop cars with sirens blasting. A cold rain hits my window. What I wouldn’t give for a little money, honey. Broker than broke, and that ain’t no joke. Somebody’s dog is barking.

The taste of blood comes up when I cough. That metallic taste. Please, God, don’t let me die here in Dante’s hell; this seventh level where I’m stuck along with  vagabonds and small-time con-men. Heaven never in reach.

She said I’d  never starve. As long as I stayed  with her. A woman I met in Pittsfield who worked at a strip joint declared. She had a thing for the wounded, the heart broken, souls that had been lost for years. She needed a new pillow to sleep with. The old one gave out on her, walked out, and left a note. It’s been fun, the letter said. Save your dimes.

We kept each other warm in the New York night. She’d bring home Chinese food, and we watched Jeopardy. Laughed a little bit. Made love on a torn mattress. Drank Gallo wine from big bottles in paper cups from the bathroom. Our naked bodies lying in the morning sun coming through a thick window. Her arms around my belly. Blankets kicked to the floor. Jazz played on public radio.

I thought we had something. You always do. Only to leave it behind. Never good enough. Always looking for the better option.

God help us all.