It\'s hard to understand, unless
you\'ve been there.
There is a pull to the streets.
I can\'t count how many dead
end jobs I\'ve held—how many roach
infested rooms I\'ve
crashed in.
The inevitable day comes when
I tell the boss, \'Fuck You, I don\'t need this shit! \'
I walk out into the misty
afternoon—I look left, then right.
I drowned out thoughts of the future with
a cheap pint of vodka.
I see one eye George on my travails,
he\'s half-lit—living in the woods.
\'Don\'t let the bastards get you down.\' He says, as he
stumbles by bent, and taking a standing eight count.
Mickey the midget stops me a
block from my flop-house.
\'Tommy boy, I\'m sick…gotta a couple of bucks so
an old drunk can get well? \'
I slip him a five.
He says with a tear in his eye,
\'God bless you Tommy—you know I
had it all, I\'m afraid the
streets own me now.\'
\'Keep your chin up\' I say as
I plummet down the
street, pretending
tomorrow is a decade away.
I climb the three flights of
stairs to my room,
slip the key in the lock,
turn the knob—it opens.
\'I love these little miracles\' I say under
my breadth.
My three-legged cat Walter saunters up to
me—he\'s white with marmalade splotches.
He does his best to rub up against
my leg—I pet his matted fur.
I passed out in an alley one
night, and woke up to Walter lying next to me.
I think something crawled into
my ear and made a home,
it\'s been there ever since.
I crash down on my chair,
and watch Walter scratch at
the door with his one front leg.
He hasn\'t been neutered—he gets the
pull of the streets.
I let him out and take a long swig of
the vodka—the potion does its magic.
Life doesn\'t look so bad,
there will be other jobs, and I still have
two weeks left in this
dump of a room.
A writer needs four walls—yet there is
always
the pull of the streets.