Overcome by the lingering sentimental touches on otherwise neglected commercial real estate. The paint scraps of a sunset, or sunrise. A six digit number to call with inquiries, the seventh long faded away. Tufts of weeds in the cracks, inaccessible to the Samaritan weedpicker like me behind a warped chain link. I fight back waking dreams of sleeping in a dry ditches turned muddy in past lives. It's good to walk, to see the world at a pace apace with my thoughts.
-dmm














