Pokey Swain Apt. 111

Pokey Swain was worried about the impending cold weather. He had just left his mother's apartment twenty blocks away; she had given him his bag of early winter clothes. Lined goloshes, a flannel and wool plaid coat, the black stocking cap, multiple pairs of cotton and wool socks that he carefully arranged in the top drawer of his dresser, flannel shirts, and six pairs of lined jeans. His t-shirts and boxers were already in the second drawer. He counted them before he went to see his mother on the second Thursday of every month. If his mother thought it necessary, she would provide him with more, after he had given her the carefully recited inventory of his dresser. She worried about Pokey and checked and doubled checked his bag before he left.

"Don't let this bag out of your hands until you get to your room."
"Okay, Mom."
"Make sure you make it on time to dinner."
"Okay, Mom."
"Don't talk to anyone on the bus ride."
"Okay, Mom."
"Pokey, did you take a shower this morning?"
"Yes, Mom. But only a short one. The water was too cold."
"I'll call the manager. You pay on time and there's no reason why you shouldn't have hot water."
"Okay, Mom. The 4:15 bus will be here in 15 minutes."
"Take this thermos and don't leave it on the bus."
Pokey sits on the first row of seats that faces the opposite window and he watches the city move slowly by. He worries that the traffic will make him miss dinner. If he misses dinner, he knows that in the morning, he will feel foggy. He might forget to eat breakfast and be late for his job as a parking garage attendant.
He had missed dinner once before and was late for work. He didn't want that to happen again. Pokey would only order the early bird special. The diner two blocks away served meatloaf as the special on Thursdays. Meatloaf, greenbeans, potatoes and rolls sprawles across a greasy white board that has long ago lost any semblance of being white. It now hangs precariously on the nail just inside the diner entrance. Years of grease, smoke, as well as the general grime that creeps into the diner every time the door swings open, has coated the daily-special board, the wall and most of the diner. Pokey's stool, the third one from the door, has a similar glaze. The tiled floor which was once white now carries the same nebulous grime. Each tarnished tile is outlined in thick, black lines of unknown density.
His thick brows furrow at the lines of cars trying to escape the city. Pokey reaches inside his coat pocket and unravels his headphones. He carefully places them on over his cap, pulls them into place and hits play. Coltrane, in mid-rift, fills his his ears. Pokey closes his eyes and waits for Miles's trumpet to follow.