Room 511

He was six-four, weighed in at about two-eighty.
I should have been scared.
I had come back for my cigarettes, and found him instead.
I'd seen him before: Room 511.

Said he was a narc.
Said some guy had fingered me for a pusher.
It was a good story.
Took me to his room - 511.
Showed me his I.D.
Cracked open a couple of beers.
We played chess.

Said he had been in Nam.
Had shot one of his men point blank
for bayoneting a baby.
Said Nam had messed him up.

I decided to leave.
Paid a visit to the house detective.
Told him the guy from 511 had been rifling through my room.
He said no one lived in 511.

Next day I saw a stranger walk out of 511.
Asked him if he was a friend of Dave's.
Said he didn't know any Dave.
Said he'd lived in 511 for the last ten years.

It was easy to figure.
There was no Dave.
There was no house detective.
And this was just another Philadelphia story.
I reached for a cigarette.


City of Brotherly Love, 1986