Robert Bradshaw The Sign  The dirt was like my landlord.  It had no sympathy for fools.  I dragged the hoe across the hard dirt.  Nothing grew here, unless  the landlord had former tenants  buried under my feet.  My only fear was getting robbed  the days I got my welfare check.  "Get a job," my landlord repeated.  I'm saving my nickels.  "Give up the booze first,"  he said.  Fate's against me,  I answered. "Sure, it is.  Fate's against every man   who's as thirsty  as a leaky radiator."  I ignored his advice.  I was too busy raking my hoe   across our empty  lot.  But when I looked down  into the canyon I saw my neighbor's  lot.  A babe was stretched out  on a lounge chair, her skin  shimmering with oils.  A gift.  A string bikini was holding her  together, like string tied loosely  around a Christmas gift.  She had rolls of dough, sure.  But she had  breasts like fresh loaves.  And wrap around sunglasses.  I quickly borrowed my landlord's  binoculars.  I leaned over the cliff  that defined my backyard.  Her buns rose like yeast  in my lens as she turned over.  God had forgiven me for lifting  a twenty from a collection plate  five years ago.  The bill  was paid.  I went down  to the state employment office  the next morning.  This  was a sign.  Something to hang  my hopes on.  I  knew  my luck was gonna  change.

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