From what the windows had to say, it was going to be another lovely morning in Sunset Park.

Thought I’d give it a spot test.

Rolled out of bed. Headed for the front door of my basement rental.

Careful to avoid the empty bottles, tiptoe around incomplete notebooks and pornography.

Paused at the door.

Little bit of backtrack to the bridge table. Snooped around. Brushing aside pens, paper clips.

Bottle of Boca Chica catching my eye.

Let the hangover execute justice in its own time.

Found a book of matches before snagging the cigarettes. Popped a Marlboro into my mouth. Took another look out the nearest window, level to Brooklyn’s 41st Street. Sunrise catching up to my side of the house, just barely.

One or two sets of sneakers. Workmen’s boots plodding past.

Occasional sandals that promised better times.

I sparked my smoke, then back towards the door.

Clad in boxers and a white crew-neck tee.

Opened the door to find Hank waiting for me on patient paws.

Bad luck cat with white socks. Proud pair of evergreen eyes offering up the soft body of a baby bird. Talons twitching. Tiny wings shuddering. Needlepoint beak open, one eye punctured. Pinpricks of blood already drying, turning an oxidized color along trembling feathers.

Hank stared, expression of love and whatever loyalty cats were capable of.

Not her fault, and it was a matter of Thank you, Hank, before she dropped it to the ground.

Let that little bird tumble from her mouth, to my feet.

Hank slipped past my bare shins. Meowing for a decent meal.

I watched the bird convulse on the concrete patio.

Another litany of complaints from my cat. Impatient. Asking how, after all this time, I still hadn’t figured out how this whole arrangement worked.

Welcoming the delay, I went to the kitchen.

Out of cat food. Reached for a can of tuna.

Halfway through my waltz with the opener, when I noticed the knife.

Reached out. Ran the blade across my palm. Checked for blood. Gave it another go, pressed with precision this time. Nothing. Lifelines sticking to their scripts. Too dull to risk the results.

You get what you pay for.

Scratched another street vendor off my list.

Kept on turning that key, smoke in my eyes, tin cracking.

Hank’s cries reached a fever pitch.

I dumped the contents into her bowl. “There. Just eat, would you?”

She buried her snout into flaky components with wet, satisfied smacks.

I paid the dying bird another visit.

Crouched close. Its beak worked. A well-placed tooth must have severed something. Bird song gone missing, robbed. I reached down with an index. Stopped short. Crazy for thinking that this repulsive colossus at the gates might provide even a modicum of comfort.

No way around it.

Walked inside, opened the closet.

Found what I was looking for on the bottom shelf.

Sat on the tattered blue couch, boosted from the block two weeks after moving in.

My breath came in tiny bursts as I slipped into my worn hiking boots.

Laced them tight. Double knots tripling.

Toes wiggling against steel tips.

Walked past my cat, happily devouring her meal.

Reached below the sink. Found my collection of plastic bags, reserved for scooping clumps of cat shit.

Tore one loose. Marched back to the doorway, with what I assumed was brave determination.

Dawn was coming upon me now with side winding aggression.

Its one decent eye stared up at me, a throbbing, black boil.

Still struggling to comprehend.

“It’s ok, little bird,” I murmured, reaching down. “We’re going to make you stop.”

I wrapped it in plastic.

Felt a tiny leg kicking against my wrist.

Set the whole bundle down on the ground.

Propped my arm against the threshold and raised my foot.

Brought it close, hovering above where its head lay.

Dug my nails into the chipped paint.

Rested my foot back on the steps.

Watched the plastic quiver, printed letters bunched in a cluster of meaningless consonants.

I bit down on my tongue, gave myself a taste for blood.

Raised my foot once more.

Felt my lips fold taut against my gums.

“Please, and I’m sorry,” I managed.

Felt a hand reach down from the sky and send my best foot forward with the force of a thousand atmospheres, sound of a crushed skull rocketing past the boot heel, through my body, transmitting empty frequencies, heartbleeds, an end to all things that sent sparks from my fingertips, incinerating the sky with blue fire, fuming, teeth clenched, moistened flecks of saliva gathering at the corners of my mouth as I raised myself upon that one inconsolable leg.

Grinding.

Finishing the job.

I dropped my cigarette to the ground.

Eight minutes since lighting up.

Hank rubbed against my ankle for a moment, curious to see what else there was.

I picked up the plastic, fingertips searching for movement.

Opened the gate. Stepped to the curb.

Raised the garbage lid and let the shapeless mass drop.

Continued to exhale, never once breathing in, as I retreated to my cave, retrieved the bottle of Boca, and collapsed across the bed.

Drank deep and sent myself spinning.

Laid there for several hours.

Wasn’t until Hank crawled into bed, brought her nose close to mine, complete with the smell of canned tuna, that I was able to sleep. And as I went that way, the birds outside my window gave thanks to the sky, the sun, the breeze and the branches, the slither of worms, and the leaves in the trees.

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so long and thanks for all the pish.