Saturday morning, Phoebe Snow’s Poetry Man playing on a turntable as I sing along and clean the NYC apartment I still dream about almost 50 years later. A rent subsidised tenement in the upper east side, so old the wooden floors tilted downward. A bathtub in the kitchen. A neighbor I never saw whose maniacal laugh could often be heard in the hallway. A graceful mantle in the parlor; my grass green colored rug, my books, and my plants. The satisfaction I felt after everything was put in order.