It’s early October. I’ve been sharing Sally’s flat with her for two weeks since Anita left. Just Sally. And I. Sharing. Two weeks. I arrange to move out.
I stand here holding the key to my apartment. It’s jagged copper edge reminds me of a downward graph, like the Wall Street crisis. This is Brooklyn, though.
Oh, gentle gutter slumberer, You couldn’t get much humbler, With your blanket of dirt, Snug as a bug in a rug, All life’s needs in a trolley Whose tinny rattle spills percussion by day,