The Oregon Coast

THE OREGON COAST / Richard Robbins An ocean in his look, a stagger and rush like waves up to the line of bean soup, bread. He conned us half the time, hungover, asking to wash his clothes. We gave him three bucks and heard again the lie of five wardrobes buried under bridges all over town. He'd wash them now. He'd find a job. He conned us half the time, and we looked away that pot-roast day he praised the cow out loud. That table shone like a beach, the meat steaming. ChUdren, full now and warm, flew a tight circle, talking to themselves, pointing. Tide out, probably for good, he talked to his hand, yodeled in the backwash, mooed. 126 · The Missouri Review ...