He jerked awake. Blanket around shoulders, three layers of cardboard on pavement, dog on string.
Ignoring the fizzing behind his eyeballs (he would die like this, he knew) he studied the sign. Route 66.
He knew there was a song there; activated memory cells.
He tapped his left foot, “Way down South, in Birmingham/I mean South, in Alabam’.” Frowned, knew it was wrong.
A dollar found its way into his polystyrene cup. “Thank you, sir. Generous.”
The words came to him, “… take the highway that is the best.” He laughed.
Time, he thought, for a coffee. He was alive.
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Lucky dip: sometimes slowish. But worth the wait.
The Fruit of my Labours: Enjoy