Death is at the doorstep, but I have no door to open. I certainly can’t close it. This doesn’t exist. However,  I hear people knocking constantly, yelling, let me in, let me in. And I ignore them. I don’t even say, go away, or nobody home. I just let them knock.

Who is it knocking besides Death? Angels, demons, the devil himself, all of them, even ghosts from the past. Friends and enemies, all knocking to see me. Yet I keep my mouth closed. Not a peep do you hear from me. These voices come and go. The ups and downs. Mania and depression.

I look down at the river from Wacker Drive, thinking, where’s your guts boy? Go on, end it all right now. Come back as a tree branch, a rabid dog, some animal in the Lincoln Park Zoo, maybe a can of tuna. Something.

There’s five bucks in my pocket. I could really go for a hotdog with mustard, neon green relish, tomatoes,  a dill pickle, and celery salt. Don’t forget the sport peppers.

Maybe this is what keeps me alive. Perhaps the city keeps me alive; I’m not sure. But the voices and thoughts are there. Always there. I could live anywhere, and they’d still be dancing a waltz inside my head. Or, maybe an Irish jig. It comes and goes. It comes and goes.

Tomorrow is Sunday, my day of rest. I will not go to church and tithe. My payment has been paid for now. I want something for the price. A reward, don’t you know. A free trip to heaven or some paradise. I cling to the ticket.