Salvatore Difalco Manhattan 6 am: adjacent man in bad wig snaps like a slug. He’s too ugly for us, skin like canvas, an ancient egg his skull. He eschews the relic airs of the neighbour, Mr. Dust, rabble of the hood, age-spots his calling card. Folks, this is no new found land, wearing out its greenhorns—decrepit rules even in its shiny zones of tony brands. Nothing would survive the flat, expired robes he wears for breakfast in his musty nook, rotting man, no smile to spare, so toothless. He wears earplugs for myopia, plays phone tag with his God in a red psychedelic sweater. I’m just saying, nothing like Manhattan in the morning, even when you’re rotting, even when you don’t know that you’re dead.
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