Dark and empty. Two men asleep on the ground. Empty vodka bottles. Crushed beer cans. Cars and semis hover above. A fire in a rusted barrel.

They dream of the first of the month. SSI checks cashed and spent.  Living like kings for a day or two. Booze in dive bars. Food from a restaurant. A cheap hotel room for a night. They never had it so good.

And then the money’s gone. No more loot. Disappeared from their pockets in a twenty-four hour stretch. Dimes and quarters left.

They beg in Times Square. Frightened Midwesterners give them a buck or two. Enough for a pint. Passing out back under the bridge or sleeping in subway cars. Trains travel into night. The long wait begins.

Thirty or thirty-one days, depending on the month. December has a hundred.