Last night I went to bed and hopefully sleep and dreams, however my stomach rebelled against two day-old cod and the 4th floor toilet bowl was my best friend until dawn. I thought about having a bagel for breakfast, but retched on the kitchen floor. Not much, but enough to check my appetite for a doughty circle. I returned to bed and groaned like a plague victim in the throes of cocaine withdrawal.

I never saw this coming.

All day I have struggled with a painting job.

My body craved the mattress and a sheet over my head blocking out the sun.

No one called on the phone other than people wanting something done for nothing, because no one pays the poor on time.

No one in my position can count on certainty.

Not in these Covid times.

At least I don’t hear the ambulances rushing to the Brooklyn hospitals with the sick and dying. Now sirens of the NYPD scrap the silence as they seek to protect the rich and their kneeling spot at the trough of public welfare.

Yesterday I was at OCCUPY CITY HALL.

Once there were hundreds.

Now there are scores.

I know a few.

Lou Little Care.

‘They’ are angry about injustice.

‘They’ have a three year-old warrant for smoking weed in New Jersey.

The Land of No.

I warned her against getting arrested by the NYPD.

“They will ship you to Jersey and then we will have a hard time getting you out of county jail.”

“Jersey sucks,” Lou admitted without reserve.

None of us are free.

Not yet.

We are prisoners of Now.

None of us know anything about today. Even someone as sick as me will surrender our hopes for the future, because no one knows tomorrow, because tomorrow always exists on the other side of today.