Tom Waits wasn't playing yet.
No music.
Voices, though: from many bodies, laughing, playing games.
And she through the door did not belong: too wan, too wide-eyed needing now.
Selling before she asked to sell.
And was it smell, or face, or carry of body? That made them, every one of many, look away, intent not to see her?
So that she wandered in the crowd alone,
and left alone,
cash in hand Callabash,
The lights on Lancaster dimming over her
and the rain
under her feet falling
because she knew
how to find it
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