Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen

Cold Water Flat

In memoir, Poetry on October 28, 2016 at 2:26 pm

 

vintage-west-village-map

COLD-WATER FLAT

That now has hot water.

I used to think of it as my

Million-dollar apartment,

All three rooms of it.

I was close to the Hudson River

And to the quiet streets

Of the West Village.

It was only a subway ride

From my mom and my hometown

In Jamaica, Queens, New York,

Where I wouldn’t be recognized

If I returned there for a visit,

As almost everyone I know

Has moved away to the Island.

West Village. 1970s. I was youth

Run amok. Up days on end, drunk,

Nicotine poisoned, searching

For an “ancient heavenly connection”

To give my life meaning while I drove

Hit-and-run love affairs that left

Me and others sorry for living.

Employers who put up with me

Because I knew books

Or to help stave off

The inevitable homelessness

I was headed to fast.

Eleventh Street. Roaches.

Smelly cat litter. Tobacco smoke.

Imagine a plethora of apt adjectives.

One cat I threw out

Before an open window.

The other cat died without

An explanation.

Now, I’m far enough

From Jamaica

And the West Village’s

Descent into madness

And have achieved

A Ginsbergian cool,

Hello, Murray Hill.

-Michael LaBombarda

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