The Red Drawer

I once wanted black, red and white. I surrounded my walls in colors that worked together, made sense and made me proud. I left the salvation army and worked my way to higher end stores. I worked my way from a one bedroom apartment to a two bedroom house. I worked my way from a receptionist to a hairstylist. I worked my way from back home to a real home. I worked my way from a girlfriend to a friend. I brought with me black, red and white. I brought with me baggage, luggage and a broken frame of self. I worked my way into a new home. I worked my way into a smaller bank account. I worked my way into better friends. I worked my way into a better hairstylist. I worked my way back into me. 

I have stripped my sheets. I have stripped my photo frames. I have stripped my ipod. I have stripped my jewelry box, and I have stripped my red drawers. I have stripped the black. I have stripped the red. I have replaced it all with white. 

Delay

There is another man who walks the same block smoking cigarette after cigarette. He looks a little like David Bowie. He always has on a tan colored trench coat, fuchsia gloves, navy blue slacks and orthopedic black shoes. I can tell he walks to the corner store and chooses the cheapest hair color they sell. The name would be something like frosted fox or golden fawn, something very 70s. He then walks home,  he still lives with his mother. Or alone with a strange pet, like an exotic bird from the amazon, that he won in a bet. He may just own a cat. A big fat orange marmalade cat that hunts mice. I can picture the way his house smells. No he lives in an apartment. Nothing has been updated since the original design of it, not even the blinds. Nor have they ever been dusted. The only time anyone ever touches them is when my David Bowie doddle-ganger is spying on his neighbors. Just like I spy on him, he studies them. 

Though every morning he wakes up while the sun is coming up and warming the window panes unleashing the wicked smells of the urine stained carpets. He sits on the edge of the same bed he had his first sexual experience in, scratches his belly and reaches for the ceiling as he tries to cover his mouth. But instead just gleeks all over his thighs and stands up.  He walks into the bathroom, he has stopped standing he rather sit on the toilet. He tucks his dick in the seat and leans his back against the cold porcelain tank. He wiggles as he finishes and stands up, bends over to the toilet paper dispenser and tears the smallest amount off. He then dabs the end up his penis and turns around to face the vanity. What a weathered face, as a child he thought smoking made you look older. Now he is 54 and his skin sags and  he looks 15 years his elder. 

He shakes his head and walks into the kitchen. He has not been to the store in over a month, but every morning he still opens the fridge then the cabinet. Starring into the empty box as though maybe someone was here and brought him left-overs. To no avail, again. He takes a seat at the four cornered table that he stole from the Albanian couple downstairs that moved out three years ago. Then reaches for his soft pack of Kent brand cigarettes and a book of matches that were left in the main door entrance of his apartment complex. He inhales his first hit and his lungs fill full of smoke. His capillaries tighten that much more and he thinks to himself "What am I going to do today?".