Back in Berkeley   I heard him at night, the man under my bed — the prince of Regent Street in his fever dream, the hour between dog and wolf. I would lie there, listening, just before leaving one world for another. I heard shuffling, murmuring, muffled laughter, conversing with God, complaining. He’d had enough. Or maybe not — who knows? He had it worse than most, I suppose, but I’d seen his daylight face, smiling at the sun, mumbling something I could almost understand, the way he stared . . .                         My landlord thought he was a bum and boarded up the crawl space. I forgot how to sleep, but now it’s all I think about.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont September 2019