Blank walls. White.  There are no pictures on them. Lamps cast a light.

Coffee maker pisses black liquid into a pot. Makes a gurgling sound as if someone was choking it. A cup and a spoon sit on the counter. Stolen sugar packets and cream; Irish flavored, French cream, hazelnut.

The radio is turned to WKCR. Twenty-four hours of Thelonius Monk. His birthday is being celebrated. Straight No Chaser.

I pour my coffee and open a window, sit on the ledge, and crawl out to the fire escape. Down below morning traffic begins. Busses, taxis, kids laughing and cursing, all of it makes a symphony.  The streets; one great concert hall.

It is beginning to rain. An autumn shower. Morning in New York.