In the Y, the common and poor mingle and try to be Christian, sometimes the talk turns to lovers, the ache of their fretful hearses, their lone hearts. The preacher, the sickened lines on her face, her hack and the stain of cigarettes, the fat man, their plans to eat Chinese that day. Oh, no. The walkman the man left at my door, one tape, a religious one, a card, words misspelled requesting a reply to his ardor. My emotions distilling into the wall, my heart hardened with pity and the bed, torn from the air in the corner, a pillow, one shoe missing.