Poor Toby Lauren. He fogs up mirrors when he walks in. Lights low, candles glow and halls echo. He fumbles with words and smiles it away. He draws back frowns and lets in the day. He packs to go and start again. He smiles in the wind and it makes him bend.
"That'll be one hundred and twenty seven dollars, thanks."
He hands it over and pushes the door closed as he goes.
Another hotel, another night, another zip on his bag pulled in tight and no more will he be back there again. And no more will they see poor Toby Lauren.
Two stamps left, who?
"Dear parents" (both in the same home), "I need more money, please help". Lick, slip through the slot, ten steps and then hope. Then forget. Then wake up and remember. Sleep. Pay for bus. Remember. Remember. Remember.
"They don't understand" no one understands. Poor Toby Lauren. One more stamp. There's too many and no one. The stamp will wilt in his wallet on the way. And only poor Toby will know, on his way home.
"Poor Toby, where've you been?"
He works at the go kart track now, he'll probably take it over one day. Toby the go kart guy. He sells christmas trees at christmas too. Poor Toby Lauren, is there anything that you can't do?