would do me, far from the crowd and the business of living, the card machines and holiday bragging. I’ll trade you the three fish I pulled from the bay this morning for a week of breakfasts in the cantina, a few beers each night, gringos will pay sixty dollars for fresh tuna. Who’s never dreamed of being a fisherman? I’ll craft you a book of poems for two months layover in the Chinese House, a camp bed and a stove and the sound of the wind in the cedars.
