It’s raining, and so I open the door, drop my things, and back in past the threshold to close the umbrella outside. I slip on a plastic bag and drop the umbrella. My knees land on the wet concrete. My palms take its pattern.
In the front room is a suitcase, and draped on the banister is a spring jacket. A plastic bag from Borders lies on the floor beside the suitcase.
An African Basenji stops me on the first flight of stairs. He growls–they never bark–but decides against it and continues down.
On the floor outside the kitchen is a shredded mess. A ripped tampon box sits on the floor a few feet farther down the hall. I smell shit, faintly.
My room is cold, somehow colder than outside, and so I lay beneath a blanket on the bed, fully dressed in pants and a jacket and tie. Cars Doppler by driving down 21st.
My face is unwashed because the bathroom faucet hisses and there is no water. Hours later there will be a trickle that nothing can stop, not the ceramic handle, not even the valve low on the wall. It provokes immediate resignation and will trickle for hours or days, maybe even longer.
And I will shower in the rain the next morning.