lease

you walk by the old men lullabying aches-n-pains in patient spanish. past the 2.99 ham-and-cheese heros, and the tuxedo cat who sometimes eyed you from the empty storefront now skittering into the truck yard, sometimes steps out for a head scratch, skritch, and back into the splinters and darkness. past the poster of the naked swimsuit model faded by years of barbershop slang, layers of magazine pulp scraped down by long looks. you walk past a garden of bargain store bric-a-brac, the LEDs and mechanical ticks a weird language that sometimes keeps time with your steps. you walk past boxes of alley cat kibble behind bodega plexiglass, and plump seductive waitresses in the dark diner. the old timer sells underwear and gloves year-round, umbrellas in time with the weathermen. you hear the cars tempt red lights through your headphones and stay one step ahead. the cafe you've been to twice even when you thought it would become your favorite spot. the beatnik bar always mysteriously empty; too early for drinks after work, these days you sweat in your office chair in a broth of old impulses simmering. you stopped reaching for the beer at night, the bass guitar you borrowed mockingly silent in its desperado case. youth is an angry womb, emerge a docile consumer. at last at least you know the best pizza in the neighborhood. at last at least the roof is there and paid for now you signed the lease. at last at least you hum to the washing of dishes. maybe you've arrived you sleep in peace and read and go to galleries and learned to shake off the lonely nights. at last at least you always dream on slow walks home.