The Old Life I Had
Cracks—another
hole in the moldy
sandwich I bought
at the bodega
down the street from my SRO
in San Francisco’s Tenderloin.
Soggy, limp
pieces of city life
squished between
cold cuts: pale, sickly
bologna or honey-maple ham,
with slices of packaged
cheese clinging
to the plastic
they were stacked against,
like mice stuck in glue.
I was a grown woman
living in an eight-by-ten
square of squalor,
in one of the world’s
most beautiful places.
“Gross,” my friend said,
pinching her nose
whenever she opened
my tiny fridge—
the kind college kids keep
in their dorm rooms.
I stood beside her, staring
at dirty shelves stacked
with cheap leftovers,
containers of take-out—
my greasy life
wrapped in saran and styrofoam,
grittier than the sidewalk
outside this shitty hotel.
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