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171 S I take long walks; it’s pointless, but I am trying finally to love this city. I like—how down the middle of a block by my work I’ve discovered a hidden dirt road, covered with trash and weeds growing thickly, lush is the word. Two mattresses bloat side-by-side obstructing the way—as if it’s a slumber party, I think, like a child. The top of one is torn open and smells of old rain. On the frame there’s a slug at least six inches long, spotted across its back, tropical looking, trailing slime. Fuck the police, someone has spray-painted on the fence. I could love this, too. It’s harmless, that paint-can hissing sound. I heard it once as I rounded the shelter, my shift ending: kids were vandalizing the shelter’s back brick wall. It was upsetting, would be expensive to deal with, but at the time, when I could only hear the laughter and the hiss, I smiled, I didn’t think. At the shelter everyone always feels more for the children. There are always shelters for children but men can be left on the street to ignore. I’ve never understood this. I argue with my 172 parents when they say something about the women and children. The civilian casualties. All right, I say, there are three of us at the table. How is it different which two are left? On the shelter wall the children had spray-painted: JD sucks dick. We had to hire someone to powerblast it off. In the newspapers they said the woman who had been the most recent bomb had maneuvered by taking the hand of a child. Today I see the shine behind a slug, that belled flower curling over a guardrail, a tricycle left in an alley, the child too big for it. ...
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