It's hot. Streets are coughing dust.
Man walks along the pavement.

MAN: [mumbling to himself] When I had my post I worried about the day I wouldn't be needed anymore. Oh, sure I was longing for that, too – fleeing the sense of being held by a thousand hooks.

STOMACH: And what now, Bright Spark? You keep talking about freedom, but I could use some supper instead. Don't you think you'd better start up something?

MAN: I know my own mind – my aim is true. Haven't I, you Belly Treasure, obeyed your calls? Haven't I gone for social subsidies whenever there's been a day worse than this?

STOMACH: I can't see the difference from here, can't see the difference. Ain't that a hook too, Man?

MAN IN SUIT: [enters from right] Spare a coin, Brother?

MAN: [stops] Sorry, I've no change at the moment.

STOMACH: [to himself] I doubt that.

MAN IN SUIT: Spare a note then, Brother. You look like a photographer or something. Must be a good job, yours.

MAN: I'm not sure, Mate. It keeps my mind busy, if nothing else.

MAN IN SUIT: May I suggest: You be the host for a meal and I will hand you this poem. The writing certainly suits a man of your standing.

STOMACH: [gets excited] Yes, yes. Have a heart, Bright Spark; you're not alone. This man knows what he's doing. Let us three now have a fair tuck-in – and a glass of wine too. How about that?