Alone in bed. Quietly, he lies there. A fan blows cool air across the room. Floodlights come on across the alley, illuminating his window blinds. It is a blue, hazy color. Almost comforting.

The garbage truck rolls down the street. There is no more silence. Now sirens wail, the L goes by, drunks stumble home. Weaving in and out of Mexican restaurants where loud music is played. Burritos for everyone.

He continues to lie there. Thinking about women and taking in the sounds of four a.m. I used to be quite the handsome man, he laughs, coughs, and sputters. Now I’m just old, he whispers.

It’s true. His skin is weathered and wrinkled. Gray hair is slicked back each morning. Yellow teeth are brushed. His bones ache.

The old man climbs out of bed. No coffee. No cream. An empty bottle of Gatorade filled with water is in the refrigerator.  He drinks it halfway down and places it back on the top shelf. Two baby aspirin melt on his tongue. He likes the fake orange flavor. Reminds him of childhood. Two bums fight in the alley. A bus roars past.

It is morning. He has no place to go. Once again, trapped by lack of money. Saltine crackers and sardines in the cabinet. The fat man eats them on a card table and lifts his pen to write a journal entry.

Has the city changed? Or have I? He asks. Youth. Young ones now own this town. Dinosaurs are dying. A tragic life. I’ve accomplished nothing.

He stops himself and realizes he’s rambling. Spewing off words. A taxi cab honks. He looks down on Clark Street, shakes his head, and crawls back into his bed, smiles and covers his body.

The train rumbles past Belmont. This is Belmont, a voice says. Next stop, Addison. Addison will be next. Stay away from the doors.

He feels at home.