Transcontinental

The bread is cheap; coffee, cheaper. Both burnt and not necessarily complementing anything. Especially not each other. But I only had a dime in my pocket, and my eyes are growing deep and hungry. To look at me, smudged by charcoal and lilting forward, you'd think I was a boxcar hobo.

It doesn't help I arrived in town hanging from the 3:2o to Des Moines, too weak to run and jump. Simply let go and rolled in the dust to a stop. Caught my breath, found the sketchiest greasy spoon and ordered my first meal since Marquette. Has it been that long? The foundries of Marquette, so many horizons ago...two days, three if I lost track in my sleep. They also burn coffee in Marquette.

Perhaps a few more weeks of restlessness. I'm not yet filthy enough.