Fritos in the cupboard. Coffee on the counter. Toast with marmalade. No cream in the fridge. Not even the powdered stuff. Bare bones.

Cigarette butts in a plastic cup. He pulls them out one at a time. Some of the filters have red lipstick on em; a whore who was there the night before. No money in his dresser. Just an old Eagle Scout badge left behind by his dad. There’s a hole in his sole.

He opens the window and lets in the cold winter air. Christmas has passed. It’s a lonely Valentine’s Day. An old card sits on his nightstand. See you soon, it says. Love, Hazel. 

A candle is lit. Pictures of naked women nailed to the walls. All twelve months are represented.  He has a fondness for Ms. November. He lights another butt. Turns on the radio and listens to 24 hours of Coltrane on WKCR. India plays.

The song ends. Another begins. A Love Supreme. He listens in a trance. It is healing. Souls need nourishment. Feed me, he says quietly.

Happy Valentine’s Day, John.