Your Apartment

For you it was a joke, not telling me where you lived.
I was a piece of trivial friendship, left
never invited, never welcomed in your apartment.
Till I made my way across Hoover Street, and showed up
in front of twin buildings at the corner of
West Adams and Vermont.
Brown crumbling walls, creaky wooden staircases,
crack house, hurt house, heart house,
apartment house, friend house.
The bike on which you made midnight journeys
to my room.
Now lying helpless, lifeless on the stairs,
that lead up and into chairs
mismatched, dishes
unwashed,
kitchen sink ant
infested,
foodless dining tables,
chaotic foodful refrigerator.


The late afternoon California sun,
radiating, convecting and conducting,
overheated freeway SUVs and sedans.
Whites, Blacks, Hispanics,
Aliens legal, illegal
Residents permanent, impermanent,
Angelinos scurrying home.


I finally enter your mattress room, surrounded by
remnants and debirs of paper explosion.
A monstrous multijointed monster desk, on which sits
"Softy", humming and carrying hurtful and heartful messages
on airy ethernet.
I unhook softy, unhinge monster, and carry both


To the door-to-door box standing next to the curb
in front of 1353.
I load part of your life and I see your apartment
for the first time one last time.