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Show 91, Jeffries, Islamorada The Greyhound shook itself and cornered out toward the interstate. He saw her waving hard, not quite used to this new biting cold, from the dark over toward the abandoned Baltimore and Ohio station. When will be the next time, he puzzled, when I lie sticky and enjambed with my lovely poet? Riding all the winter night. And at dawn, no farther than Charleston. Free to stretch, he talks to a girl in the streets, country-cute as a Walton. Afternoon break in Winston-Salem. A sign across a baby Carolina skyscraper puns WATCHOVIA. Night stop in Columbus, Georgia. Terminal food. Two months of this, he thought. Cramped, he worked his seat back into the space of a passenger behind. At a threshold of sleep he imagined a home with three beautiful soap-opera children. Jennifer, Stephanie, and the talented young son , Doctor- The TV withdrawal symptoms. Sometime after midnight they rolled into the Sunshine State. Just north of Fort Pierce somebody with a lot of nerve lit up a joint in that Greyhound bus. "Let's just you put that out right now," the driver growled back softly, as most everybody was in that sick sort of sleep you find in the close air of a bus, just before morning. |