Chelsea Morning

Morning tea comes too soon
with a slap of newsprint
at my door
while twenty floors below
some sweet young thing
promises the end of the world
on a postcard.
If these walls could talk
I would probably weep
because the paint
has not been seen in years
and covers nothing.

My pillow is a thin buffer
against the noise next door,
and down the hall
I can hear the maid
flick her ashes
down the laundry chute,
slipping the matches
into her bra
and praying the guy in 113
did not dream of her again
all over his sheets.
My blanket weighs a ton
and the elevator grinding
to a halt
is my last stab
at anything rational.

This must be how Joey felt
or maybe Sid.
You know -
funky in a beat up sort of way,
the mattress upstairs
chugging away
and last night
taking up too much space
in my mouth.