His things are bruising his arms. From hotel room to rooming house to trailer, there's time and quiet to visit a cafe. Beneath a Fifties sign, knees at the counter, first names are served by generations. The immigrant hopes for nothing, bread for bread. An active torso and glimmering of desert water interests us.
Someone is so companiable in a nice room.
The visitor's ship plunges in the despond. However, his impressions are fed by the acts. The hope for brotherhood discredited, and midgets from Foundations on the roll - O dear Deborah of the free market, I'm sure that I, that you could save my soul. The pounding of those waves has washed the sand, and so I know your look, your walk, your voice. With time alone you'd lose the need you'd find, unless as woman you stay near my noise.