I wonder where she is. Last heard, she ran off  with some insurance salesman to Buffalo. He left his wife and kids to be with her. But Buffalo? Why Buffalo?

Of all the places they could have gone, they chose a dreary town like that. Why not some place exotic like Vermont or New Hampshire? Who knows?

She was always on the move. She probably chose to settle down to a miserable life like most Americans. These dreams we have. And we wind up settling for Buffalo.

The whole country is Buffalo if you think about it; a falling down city surrounded by suburban dreams. And we think we’ve made it. Thinking we live in the greatest country on earth. Yes, one big Buffalo.

We shared a small room in the Bronx. Walls were dingy from cigarette smoke. Pull tab beer cans in an overflowing trashcan. A coffee maker you had to jiggle a bit.

I wrote poetry. She was a hooker. Often at night, I would roam the city while old men undressed her. She left money around the room just to tease me. Didn’t bother me. She earned it.

At the end of the month, I’d take her out for a meal and a movie with royalty checks from book sales. These payments didn’t amount to much. Fifty here and sometimes seventy there. I never had rent. I made up for it in other ways. I listened to her. She always said I was the only person who listened to her. I was happy to oblige.

And then, one day, it was over. Came back to the room, and she was gone. Wrote a note saying she took off for Buffalo with an insurance salesman.

Damn. I hate insurance salesmen. And I hate Buffalo.