3689. 381 WASHINGTON STREET

381 WASHINGTON STREET

I feel like an existential martyr, the guy all scrunched

up, waiting in black on the couch. There's nothing on

my face but a grimace. The old, tired air of the flinty

walk-up I inhabit reeks at every moment of sundown

and flesh. I'd really rather be anywhere else at all.

-

Just before, out at the harbor, we walked like two

drugged sailors to the very edge of the wharf  -  one

daring the other to jump. Then the black truck went

by, and from within someone threw a small bag of

garbage our way. That certainly fixed our conversation,

didn't it. Before it was another second, they'd left 

in a big puff of bad truck smoke.  I thought of all

the places we'd been, and all the people

with whom we'd spoken. Strange, how

so little remains of the good.

-

'Don't live in the past, those days are over,

you're done with that, it's finished.' Helena

said that from the landing ledge, a little while

ago. I'd tried waiting for the words to set

in, but was too restless, just had to go.

Now, only a few hours on, here I am

again, scrunched up and tired, and

oh so ready to run.