Broken hope
With a cash stream that’s run dry,
He packs up his lonely belongings
Along with a wallet photo
Of a distant dream,
Heading for the Promised Land
Of toil and sweat and dirt
And a paycheck to lure back that vision,
So out of reach,
With the swarming and hostile streets
And the locker-room filth and stench
In a crammed shared room
With others trying to vie their way
Back from a lost world
Where nothing else is left
But the oil and the salt
And the chance of luck
Conjured up in the amber
At the bottom of a shot glass.
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