I invade dumpsters. Eyes widen, surveying Keystone Light cartons, corn stalks, and empty steak packages. I conjure barbeques, gesturing arms, and laughter.
Have another beer, some steak.
I taste smiles. Voices offering beds. Welcome.
Caught. Cold eyes dissect stench—beard.
I hold dreams. Try to smile.
My smile feels like sobs.
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