Was it your tattered cardboard sign, your worn guitar, or your dirty backpack? People at that Nebraska interstate rest stop were ignoring you. You came holding your Cup O’ Ramen, about to sit down and enjoy lunch. I saw dreadlocks, patched dirty jeans, and tired sweat. Then I saw your eyes, startlingly blue, and your face, young and hopeful and accepting. We talked. Your favorite place, you said, had been New Orleans. Boulder or Alaska? Didn’t matter which, you said. I was headed to Boulder but couldn’t imagine your stuff touching mine in my car so I walked on, haunted.
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