Hell’s Kitchen Serving

Getting served,

Or served up,

Was a time

When I indulged suffering.

It was the thing aspiring creative youth did

To truly feel worthy.

So…

I attempted to enjoy my casket on springs

Squeaky becoming my roommate.

For added company,

The bed faced a window aglow

With short circuiting “Striptease” neon reflections.

In the lobby

A piano echoed up the stairwell.

The same mistakes.

The same old man.

The same blues song.

The insufferable “Death Don’t Have No Mercy.”

Finding peace was somewhat daunting,

Usually on Sunday afternoon,

With center stage neurotic spider in heavy trench coat

Cornering a fly with his web of hungry dust mites.

Sunrise-prep was one floor up.

Bare feet shuffling to hippie/sufi recorded chants,

Readying weekday fortune telling.

Such a gypsy this one.

Bang whatever she could lure by day,

Sleep-overs in her den-of-iniquity by night.

Yes…

There was a time when Hell’s Kitchen served up

The unexpected.

Occasional silence became the preamble

To sounds of a child crying.

It came from somewhere,

At times,

From everywhere,

Myself included.

Check, please.