Doors open to the passing world, spring sidles into the place, warm and bright, half blinding me.
Janis singing about how high the cotton is, what the catfish are doing. A woman in tight blue jeans and white blouse fills the doorway for a second, she's gone but the image lingers for just a little bit. A breeze clears the stale smoke, riffles the hair Armand still has left on his head.
C'mon. I'll buy ya a cold one.