the last time i was in new york,
it wasn't at the plaza hotel
with a view of central park.
the view from room 504
at the broadway central
in the village was a light well.
the desk clerk left his perch
behind the counter in the 60 watt murk
and led us to the wheezing elevator.
he unlocked the room for us
and discovered that the previous occupant
had left his clothes hanging in the closet.
i think he was a junkie, he said,
quite possible he's dead.
he hasn't paid his room bill.
he looked over the goodwill coat
and trousers, and a couple of shirts
with a practiced eye, and said
i'll just take these, the room looks ok,
i'll let you guys have it for twelve bucks.
in advance. bathroom is down the hall.
after he left, we found some kind
of powder in a ball of aluminum foil
and a bag of empty caplets.
we went down to the street
some hippies tried to interest us
in buying some crappy weed,
mostly stems and guaranteed
to produce nothing but
a headache so we declined.
they asked where we were from.
san rafael, california we replied.
really? do you know jeff josephson?
yeah, i do. he lives down the block
from me. then we smoked a joint
with them and got a headache.
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