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Sid Thomas

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American Duet

2. Hotel Providence

Another night I lie awake, listening
to the racket, waiting for Sleepout Jackie
to hose me down, or for my cat, Malaka
to drop through the hole in the chicken wire -
a ball of scraggy fur clawing my hand.
I’d leave if someone’d have her
go back to my parent’s place -
but compromises don’t come easy.

On Long Island I got tools,
$10,000 worth locked in the garage.
Used to fix BMWs and Porches.
Snapped my back. Now I’m hooked
on Klonapin. Tomorrow I’ll phone home,
ask for cash by Priority Mail.
Buy a camera, take pictures of the joint,
send them to my relatives. Try and score.

Dawn. The Bowery begins to stir.
Salsa blares from every flophouse on the block.
TVs compete with radios -
got soaps in one ear, Howard Stern
in the other. Drifting down the hallway
the smell of cremated meatballs
from Sleepout Jackie’s chuck wagon.

I quit shaving - the sight of sagging jowls
and false teeth freaks me. Bottle of
Wild Irish Rose is kinder than the mirror.
I bum a dollar for a caramel candy. Then hover
outside the dealer’s door. Familiar footsteps
make me edgy, Malaka’s fur stiffens like a punk.
I pray the shark’s knuckles won’t rattle my cage.

 


Sid Thomas is a native Scouser, now living in Holmfirth, Yorks. He has taught creative writing in schools, colleges and universities and undertaken residencies in prisons and with the wider community, including those suffering or recovering from mental illness. As well as being published in various literary magazines, Sid is a performed playwright.

 

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