He sat on a metal chair and looked out the window onto the streets below. Streetlights flickered. Neon shined. Cars with one headlight. An ambulance goes past with no sirens. He sips coffee.

Ted purrs as he butts his head against his leg. The cat talks in a foreign language but he understands. He sees Ted’s point. More food. More water. The fat man opens a can of tuna and places it  next to an overflowing trashcan. There is silence while the cat eats.

Torn pages from books of poetry thumbtacked to walls. Rilke, Ginsberg, Cummings, Whitman, Kerouac, and others carefully placed over his twin mattress, refrigerator, sink, and windows. There are no curtains.

The electric typewriter sits on a table next to an ashtray. A chianti bottle with a red candle burns.

One of these days, I’ll write the great American novel, he laughs. But for now….

He looks down at the street again. Cop cars go by. A city bus stops at the corner, letting out drunks and third shift workers, people who are real.

I’ll write tomorrow,  he says. Tomorrow, he wipes off dust on his keys. But for now, there’s nothing to write about.