I'm sitting in a strange man's house reading, "stranger in a strange land",
     and resisting the idea that I am another on a strain of poor
         marginalized Americans.

I'm a night janitor at an elementary school that goes unnamed.
The kids smile and run past without a second thought.
My boss doesn't ask questions for his own reasons, and I
    just want my story to be heard.

My girlfriend is curled up on the futon behind me, and I'm wondering
     how I got so lucky.
There's a Francisco De Goya **** hanging above this overtly
     post-modern desk, and I'm eating at the soup kitchen tomorrow.
I stay inside most days, wrapped in a blanket, not realizing until too
     late that it's actually warm, and that the AC is turned up way too high.