That’s where I was left one night,
after fanning my wallet’s options.
It was low opportunity in the eighties
when your search engine was
blacked-out street signs. A lonely’s faith 
hotel in central Manhattan
near its main armpit, swipe 
of crotches and cards transport.

Covered in soot from the city’s chimneys,
deposited because it looked nice with
cigarette ash and resentment.
The mattress on my bed so thin,
coils branded my back with
broken circles. An invisible blanket 
wouldn’t dare keep out the chill of sirens.

A payphone was in the hallway, ring tone 
deaf from hourly visitors who called afterward.
I sat down anyway picking at a pebbled carpet
the green-brown of Haight/Ashbury,
ignoring men, directionless stories buried
in nesting beards. 

Pulling to straighten the cord,
I managed screams and sobs, 
a starvation dismissed, and felt 
his bow through the mouthpiece.

🚬☎️