1
Mine is a room in a first-floor warren:
at one end door; a sink; a table;
a dusty bed; a window at the other.
The building creaks and groans in the winter chill,
it’s joists and floor-boards rheumatic with cold.
The smells of the other tenants crowd the air.
I discover trails of liquid footprints
in the bathroom I share, opposite my door,
and wafers of soap thin enough to post.
A garnish of pubic hair (three or four)
clusters around the plug-hole, inside a halo
of scum. I have bought a bottle of Cif.
Brown envelopes from Social Security
pile up on the hall table
next to the pay-phone, like dandruff.
The ground-floor kitchen simmers with voices.
The stove in the corner runs on gas.
The oven could, at a pinch, hold three heads.
2
Cooking smells rise
through my cracked linoleum
like moles; I keep
an aerosol
for freshening
the atmosphere.
Last week, I
met a tenant
on the balcony
who explained the house
is heated by hot
water pipes.
We talked about
the schools we went to,
his in Boston, mine
a public school
in Queens, all boys,
a 1930s red-brick pile,
a place anchored
in the past.
A teacher was
beaten up once
in a while, but
what on earth made
me mention that
I cannot say.
3
Fried noodles in a spicy
curry flavour sauce,
mixed with Soya protein and
dried vegetables.
*Add boiling water up to the
fill line. *Allow to stand for
2 minutes, stir thoroughly.
*Stand for a further 2 minutes.
*Stir before serving.
4
This is an all-male rooming house.
We stand, at night, in our dingy rooms
staring back at our reflections
in the mirror over the sink,
and masturbate. Silk threads
of semen glisten in the plug hole.
Till we wash them away. The plumbing
Splutters and belches for a minute
then exists the room in silence.
A five o'clock shadow masks his cheeks,
the cheeks of the man I'd say 'hi' to.
His great bunched first
clutches a Safeway bag hanging
lumpy with food from the end of his arm.
His sentences congeal like jello...
I was going to make some coffee, but
electricity isn't cheap.
(The meter by the bed consumes
coins with the loveless
veracity of sand;
my lights are fed.)
I am barely twenty-eight.
I deserve a better life than this.
5
The days drag on, blurring
into weeks, months. I walk
in the park,
in a pair of jeans,
in a pair of sneakers,
in a sweatshirt
I change at least
several times a week,
in shorts and socks.
I sprinkle something other than thyme
on the river
(a handful of
pebbles, grains
of rice-something like
money) to
make a wish,
a wish for
money.
