Showering at Nelson's

Nelson was this guy I knew 
when I was homeless. 
He'd been homeless, too, 
and, even though empathy 
wasn't a word 
he'd regularly use, 
he had empathy 
for my situation. 
(That, plus, I think he liked 
being friendly with someone 
intellectual.) 

Nelson had the monkey when 
he was younger, you know, heroin, 
and I suspect he took a taste 
every now & then in his older years, 
when I got to know him. 
Not that he and I ever shared any: 
heroin makes the shortlist 
of drugs I haven't tried 
or done habitually. We'd 
just smoke a joint or two 
(or three or four when our budgets allowed) 
and smoke cigarettes, drinking 
drinking beer in his livingroom.  

It was a respectable place 
except Nelson was a slob, 
and I can hardly remember 
a single damn time 
there weren't stacks of old Playboys 
on either side of his couch 
and a mass-grave of filthy dishes 
rising out from the kitchen sink. 
Also: beer bottles, dozens and 
perhaps 100 beer bottles, cans 
with the spit and cigarette 
butts and ashes festering 
in one out of four. 

But it's long enough, 
I should get to the point. 

Nelson could be flakey, and he lied about women 
the way streetwalkers lie about their taxes. 
Even so, he wasn't bankrupt of generosity. 

He'd let me crash on the floor 
four or five times a year 
during the time we were 
friendly. And I'd tidy up 
the livingroom and kitchen 
(except for the magazines) 
and he'd trust me in the apartment 
by myself, a rare sense of trust, indeed 
for the city this all took place in. 
And I could generally count on Nelson 
to use his bathroom, an absolute 
godly luxury 
for a man who keeps his 
comb and toothbrush in a backpack. 

I never saw clean towels, 
not even for Nelson, 
but then spare t-shirts 
are every bit as good. 

****