LatinosUSA

Third Door Down

(Listening to Astor Piazzolla: “Cuatro Estaciones Porteñas”)
 
He told me it’s the third door down
the hall with the bad light,
“you’ll find the door unlocked,” he said,
“In fact, it’s never closed at night.”
And then he lit a cigarette,
a smile crossed his lips,
a micro-second gesture
then he gestured for his tip.
 
I handed him ten dollars,
he blew smoke in my face,
“If you want to earn a trifle more
you’ll have to change your pace”
I whispered, as I walked away
towards the hallway with bad light.
I heard him mutter “cheap ass”,
I felt the urge to laugh.
 
The hallway was a dark and smelly
harbinger of misery,
I counted one, two, three and saw
the door, jet black, dark mystery,
and then I lit a cigarette,
a frown danced on my face,
a gesture for eternity,
sculpted, painted, etched.
 
The smell of alcohol, tobacco, sweat
rushed out, as I opened wide
the third door on this passage
dark and loud,
loud with the voice of loneliness,
loud with the complaints,
of millions that have died like this
forgotten in this place.
 
There’s no cure for being alone,
no drugs to calm the brain.
To be forgotten is a curse,
unbearable its pain.
Defeated is the soul, while
the body still remains,
the spirit lingers far above
the days are all the same.
 
He looked at me as I returned
“You didn’t dare step in”,
he said, he laughed, he shook his head,
“ten dollars, but a whim.”
I tried to hide a tear
but it rolled down instead,
“Don’t worry mate, I’ll toast his bread”,
as I slipped away he said.