Blankets cover windows. Cacti are dying. Old blooms lie on the floor. Dirt is stiff and hard. Water no longer runs. Faucets have been dry for a year or two. No tea. No coffee. Nothing. A hundred packs of Kool-aid wasted.

The bath tub is filled with dirty pots and pans. Cat shit on the floors. No toilet paper. Tiny bits of soap on the sink. He spits in his hands and rubs the small pieces in between them. A dirty towel is used to wipe his hands; his ass.

Outside, the grass is taller than corn stalks. Wild flowers growing in the sun. Summer in Vermont. He sits outside and takes in the coolness of the morning air. It is bright. Wind blows. Lips chapped.

Sometimes, he sleeps outside. It is quiet in Montpelier. No noise after midnight. The town has fallen into a trance. Lights are out. Peace.

His old Pinto sits on concrete blocks in the front yard. Wheels removed. He remembers driving it to Cambridge for weekends with his lover. They walked around Harvard Square and smoked joints the size of an ink pen. Laughing. Sitting in an Irish bar called The Plough and Stars. Reciting Joyce to one another. Reading in silence over a pint. Holding hands.

He now spends his days dreaming of old times. Years gone by. He doesn’t wish for the past. Nor the future. Looking out over Montpelier. He just wishes it would end.