Books. He’s surrounded by literature. Dostoyevsky, Miller, Ellison, Camus, Shepard, Kafka, Baldwin, Mailer, Carver, Fitzgerald, and more line bookshelves in his rented room.

A twin bed in the corner. A winter coat used for a blanket. Some wadded up tee-shirt a pillow. Jazz plays on WKCR in the early morning hours. Water boils on a hot plate. A used tea bag awaits.

Windows sweat. The steam heat hits the cold glass. He draws stick figures and signs his name with a red tipped finger. Looks down on the Bronx below and smiles at red leaves shining in morning’s sun.

A train runs throughout the day. Coming and leaving. Taking people to Pelham Bay or Midtown Manhattan. Vagabonds riding all day and into night. Sleeping in seats. Piss worn pants and greasy sweatshirts. Some, who are new to this life, look on in despair while the jaded read The Times, The Post, Wall Street Journal, all sitting in silence. Rain starts to fall.

The old man sits alone in his room. Drinking his Lipton tea. Stolen sugar packets on a card table. An ashtray with butts in it. He chose this life years ago. A life with books and jazz in a city that welcomed him. Took him in. And made the old man one of their own.

It could have been Boston or Philadelphia. Vermont or New Hampshire. Jersey or Connecticut. But he wound up in a city that takes everybody in. He hopes that tradition continues. This is my home, he says. This is my home.