The yellow cat sprawls in a foggy damp dawn in front of the 24-hour convenience store.
Coffee and gas, the former buyers step over the cat.
I opt for the daily paper.
I try to read it outside.
My glasses fog.
The gray humid hours pass.
Time to turn in the room key.
Fortunate me, a snug room .
The night before, $14 easily dropped for a miniature crab cake the size of a walnut.
A homeless woman shuffles to the beach.
I yell, “Hey, I’ll leave the door open.
“You can grab a shower.”
She turns and shouts, “Fuck you and your offer.
“You’re so fuckin’ stupid; you think the shower’d make it better.”
Close to the beach she goes, her backpack a brown lump in the fog.
I walk to the office and drop the key,
But just in case, I leave door unlocked.
Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, late April 2015