How to die in an SRO hotel

Yet another death notice appears in the hallways
of my Tenderloin SRO hotel:

........................................................................
"To all tenants:

It is with great sorrow and regret
that we inform you of the death of your fellow tenant
John Schuett -- lived in unit #325
on February 14, 2005.

Management."
..........................................................................

That's a typical T-loin epitaph.
I didn't know John at all, though he was my "downstairsnik",
living two floors below me.
I don't know his sexual orientation, his color, his past, his hopes.
And googling doesn't help.

Some day, unless I get evicted,
Management will post the same notice for me.

By the time my neighbors sink down to homelessness,
then rise one step up to this hotel,
most of us are over forty, sick in body and in mind,
and afflicted with substance issues. Our death rate is high.
We're lucky if we can die here in a private room, rather than on a sidewalk or in a noisy hospital.
If we overdose, friends wonder whether it was really accidental.

So I'll say to John:
"Hello, goodbye, and congratulations."




-- Queer Turtle62 in Da Loin