Been on a bus fifteen days, following my dream to tour the U.S. of A. Course my dream wasn’t set on a bus of screaming children and women who won’t stop talking. Neither was I going to be seventy-five and homeless. But the world hands you rotten apples and you make do.
My hair looks a fright, clothes are dirty and I smell a bit, probably why the waitress at the bus-stop lunch-counter is giving me the stink eye. She reaches for a plate, slaps something on it, slides it down the counter.
I’ll be damned! Toast with a smiley face.
Up From the Ashes 