That smile, small and butter yellow, seemed tacked up on walnut eyes that peered out in uneven lines. The kind of decorum they sell at roadside stands along green highways in the south; the kind that makes you feel at home if you grew up poor—like those plaques with bad quotes that get hung up in the kitchen, the only thing drawn to them is the airborne grease from home-style recipes. And a year down the line, these signs grow gray with heavy dust like the color of the bags under those walnut eyes. The color of wear, like it must have been a second-hand stand. Like he must have been passed around before.

Dominic Shaw