The efficiency room days were
the worst and the best.
Broke and bent,
sick and deranged.
Disheveled dreams, like
horses with broken legs.
There was an occasional
miracle.
A forgotten five-dollar
bill crumpled in the
front pocket of some dirty
jeans, lying by the fake
plant and a copy of Hamsun's
Hunger, long overdue from
the library.
The fiver would buy a
pint of cheap vodka.
My nerves settled for a
moment.
Friends seem to drift
away by the month.
"Where's Johnny?"
"He froze down at the Raccoon River."
"Oh shit, he was always good for a snort."
"Have you seen Sue lately?"
"The cirrhosis finally took her."
"Son of a bitch, I used to get drunk and
tell her I loved her, while she gave me head."
Poverty and death drank with us in
those cheap rooms,
Singing sad songs and songs
of victory.
Battles were won and lost
and great debates waged in our
addled minds.
We took care of each other the best
we knew how.
Life was just a myth.