I went to the sage, I went to the morsel,
and the pepper and the slice. Here, where
they keep the secret recipes hid. There
were five old houses in a row - suffering
each, leaning and pale and broken. No one
seemed to live in any. On the corner, blue
glass and a pizza store, trying.
A person can't return from nowhere
without something. It would seem to me:
a hand-me-down, worn-out trinket,
or something given, for free.