Daniel Rossen “Saint Nothing” is coming out of the machine… single speaker…. Soft and unobtrusive. Just to keep me company. Like the pets I don’t own. (Cats make me sneeze, dogs make me sad, too many hours spent solo.) A glass down to it dregs off to my right, just within reach. A bottle three quarters full that makes me smile. The ashtray, ceramic with two compartments, one for my glass whose base is to wide to balance, and a sidecar printed with the words Sip N’ Smoke somewhat obscured by a single butt and a charred match. I light the spliff I learned to roll just the other night. My left leg is crossed over my right. Chin balanced between thumb and forefinger. I’d prefer a different configuration but the desk is awkward and illfitted for comfort. Outside my window, the night collapses beneath concrete clicking heels and the wind whipped laughter of smokers in doorways of overcrowded bars. The heater hisses in the bedroom as footsteps of neighbors fade down the hall. And it is as simple as that. Painting the moment I last thought of you.
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