There are those who only have their name to give as thanks.
Have you seen a two year old boy hand his papa an orange peel?

That is what I remember, and Barry's eyes, too, oddly sweet, gleaming with oil,
glazed and losing. Admitting with his palm, thirty of the filthiest cents I have ever seen,
     A sort of proof, I suppose.

"Where are you from?" means "where are you as a person?"

At an intersection, on the corner, by a guardrail plastered with band stickers,
by a highway to nowhere,

I am always home but do not belong.