Homeless in New York

In the last three nights I have slept in three different beds. I'd like to say I was getting some action but I wasn't. I did watch a probable prostitute lick the face of an older male guest at the bar where I work but I can't claim any points for that. I'm even tempted to lie and say that I was partying a little too hard for a Tuesday and that I just had to crash where I was. But I wasn't and so I won't. No, I'm not waking up in new beds with new people. I'm just homeless in New York. I moved out of my apartment on Sunday and haven't moved into a new one yet. I have a couple of bags, I have my sneakers and a hoodie on, and I'm just here.

It's a strange feeling , not having a place to go home to. Changing in the locker room at the end of my shift last night I saw myself on the L train, going home to Bushwick, as I'd done every night for the past two years. In my mind's eye I saw that I got a seat, lucky me, so I opened up my book. But I couldn't concentrate. At every stop I sat up and looked for a clue but couldn't find one. Where should I get off? the me in my vision asked the empty train car nearing the end of the line. That's when I realized that I don't have a stop on this train, that I don't have a stop on any train.

Back in the locker room I zipped up my jeans, tied my sneakers, and decided to take the 6 train to Geneva's house in Spanish Harlem. I got a seat on that train but didn't bother to take my book out of my purse. I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate. Instead I looked at all the people and thought about how each of them has a stop on this train.

Geneva was making vegan chili when I came in. (Leave it to Geneva to make vegan chili at midnight.) So even though it wasn't home, it kinda tasted like home.