A cup of yesterday’s coffee sits on a table next to On The Road and Lolita. I drink the cold caffeine and light a cigarette. My day has begun.

Sitting on a couch typing away on my phone, a short piece comes to mind; a memory. Isn’t that where all our stories come from?

I was homeless in New York for four years; living in shelters, drop in centers, sleeping in synagogue basements, and Catholic chambers. Or, riding around all night on the 6 train, writing, always writing. Going back and forth between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Bronx. Vagabonds sleeping. Kids drunk on love, third shift workers going home in the early morn, all of us underground while dear old Manhattan wakes.

Trips to Bellevue. Always going to the hospital on 1st Avenue for meds, bloodwork, an occasional stay as if it were a hotel for the mentally ill; sick people coming from all over America in search of help; food stamp cards, free health care, a place to sleep, a therapist’s ear to bend.

We have all wound up here in Gotham. Waiting our turn. Wanting what everybody wants; a home.