The boy smelled of salt,
and was silent.
Even when he talked,
he didn't make any noise at all.

He just looked at me
as if he suspected me
of something he hadn't yet learned
how to fear.

Earlier, I picked up a
black plastic comb
and put it in my back pocket.
All he owns is in a thin plastic bag at my feet.

I ask if he will try again, and
his honey eyes turn to dirty spoons.
He is young, but handsome.
The coffee tastes like it has whiskey in it.

Maybe he left a girlfriend at home.
Maybe she is walking with him,
breathing his prayers for luck and for water,
or she makes him wish he could turn back.

His nails are black,
caked under with dirt,
bitten ragged.
My eyes are full of desert sand.