South State Street Profile

A great oak brown face, a strange face with inch and a half eyes placed three inches above two mustache guarded lips has Joe, a seller of hotdogs on State Street A seventy year old voice has this man of fifty . . . his eyes seldom see what they gaze upon . . . he appreciates words unspoken better—much better—than those one says Joe swims in a sea of yesterdays . . . memories of better times beat against his mind like a lash . . . his lips tell tales while his hands make a living "Way back down home" he says while brown hands paint red frankfurters a thick yellow with French's mustard "I used to didn't know no trouble . . . but the Wah came and I lost two sons and my wife died and I came up No'th . . ." He sells another and still he sees dreamed-of things with his eyes while his hands make a living . . .