Church Street Beat
Yes, I remember that railroad flat we shared on the third floor, the one with the chandeliers and dumbwaiter closet and wall heater with no heat. In my narrow room with its blue desk and single bed, you sat between my knees while I braided your hair. We listened to the rhythmic rocking of the gay lovers making love above, and the alley echo of the boy below, with whom I’d mistakenly slept, who incessantly played his drum set. During my brief love affair with flamenco I bought a used pair of character shoes, black with a thin strap and the metal taps still nailed on, then stomped staccatos on his ceiling in defiance.