I listen to jazz from a transistor radio. Boil my water for instant coffee on a hot plate. My refrigerator is small and holds my beer and bread, peanut butter, a bottle of vodka, and an orange or two. There’s a small sink below a medicine cabinet with a mirror on it. Every day, I look in that mirror and watch closely as wrinkles form, skin becomes leather, and hair turns gray. Where did he go?

Years ago, I walked all over Manhattan. Going into bars, jazz clubs, diners at four in the morning. I looked immaculate. 

Slick the black hair back. Put on a sports coat. A pair of suede shoes. Pants that fit just right. A cigarette dangling from my lips; thinking I was Mickey Rourke or Brando. The pope of Greenwich Village indeed.

Women came and went. Leaving me behind for some salesman. Maybe a dentist. Someone with a future. A home in Connecticut. A brownstone on the Westside. They sought higher opportunities.

And here I am. Still in the city. Still hungry, but with a gut. The legs are weak. Voice is scratchy. People change. 

Coltrane plays on the radio.