I miss 1298 Dekalb Avenue.
The dirty cracked four flights to the blank grey steel commercial door. The leaky faucet in the bathroom, the medicine cabinet mirror too high for me to see without heels…the wires that hang from the openings in the walls. The array of bottles that line the kitchen cabinets: Jack, Johnnie and assorted beers. The old dresser, the guitar with only three strings – the hookah with the plastic tube—the two piece sectional that slides apart as one moves on it…the bare bedroom, clothes on the floor, a closet full of white t shirts and hidden money. It is barely ever warm – no gas to cook food-- only the water heater, tired and cranky from being used all the time. But there’s always a smile; always a song; always a joint to be smoked or whiskey to be drank.
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