And then I went to Pittsburgh. Then I went to San Francisco. Then I went to Rock Springs. February, 1983- Poor Man's Jodie Foster Interstate cuts across a sunlit land. Winter-frozen mud has dried to rock.
Traveler steps half-aware from Greyhound.
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.