Green trim and rock posters hang above.
The turntable is dusty with Jeff beck's album that put me to sleep the night before.
Hung over from flirting and dancing I lay on the pullout bed wishing for coffee.
My room is still dark with closed curtains blocking the noon light.
Roaches litter the ashtray.
Glasses stand on the surface of my vanity and bureau. The carpet smells like ashes and soot.
So does my hair.
I reach for a large size roach while my eyes search for my silver cigarette case that holds my fresh joints.
Propping myself on my elbow I try to strike a match while holding the roach.
It's awkward but my young fingers are well versed in get high dexterity.
Inhaling and holding I let out a fierce cough of smoke.
Looking at the phone I start to reach for but change my mind needing a cup of inspiration and a corn muffin first.
Closing my eyes to the coming day I take comfort in the clouds behind them no one knows is there but me.
Seeing my empty wallet on the side table I begin to plot how to fill it for tonight's escapades.
At this point it's too late to slip it out of my stepfathers bookie loot pile.
I should have done that before I fell asleep.
I could babysit then head across the street to studio 54.
Except tonight the crowd will be from other Burroughs where guys lack class heavy with cologne, New York accents and fat, calloused, hard worker hands.
I dig the manhattan guys with long hair and guitar fingers that play in your hair and smell like Marlboro cigarettes.
I want that guy!
Who dances in tight black sealskin pants, with two sizes too small T-shirts and leather jackets flung over their shoulders.
Maybe my mom will lend me the cover charge to get into Infinity downtown, where I'm sure some rocker will stick his tongue in my ear and my lap!