a glass of beer. That was the year
that Julius found a postage stamp
stuck on the heel of his boot.
He wrote his address on the instep
and dropped it in the box
on the corner by the bank.
He limped across the street,
hobbled to a table,
and dropped into a seat.
Here was the beer,
and clinging to the glass,
the lemon-colored money.
It didn't look legal to Julius.
He doubted he could use it
to buy that narrow-brimmed,
on that blue plastic head in the window
across the crosswalk from here.