As the sun drops it plays hide-n-seek behind old-lady lacy clouds.

I'm walking home.

Cracks pirouette about the pavement, dodging empty drink-boxes and discarded Trivial Pursuit cards. No one notices the easily accessible knowledge spilling across the pavement. No one cares that one of the answers is "Napoleon".

Sneaking up to a familiar fence, I have to whistle to get the attention of the dog that usually barks at me. He's a sad dog, and I think defending his territory makes him feel better. His pit-bull eyes are dull, but he barks a few times anyway, mostly for me. I think we understand each other. We both know he could come over that fence if he wanted to. I notice his water-bowl is empty and say woof to him.

I cross the street to avoid the couple in the sidewalk: an older, bald man with glasses and pale skin; and a younger woman with prematurely gray hair and white-blue eyes. They delicately pull a cheaply-made department-store bookcase covered in fake wood-grain, wrapped in stretchy plastic from the bed of a fragile-looking pickup truck. They seem cautiously proud of their new possession, and a little scared of the street as they hurry inside.

Granules of shattered glass cocoon the sidewalk, and form sparkling arabesques, so thick in places that navigating these streets is like walking on gravel. And, I hope my soles are thick enough to protect me.

And, despite the fact that this urban grid is populated by elegant Victorian architecture, saturated in Crayola pastels, and dripping with past prosperity, there is poverty here. And, I'm afraid to walk home sometimes. And, I'm glad it will still be sunny when I get home.

An old man shuffles dollar bills behind a cart filled with pumpkins. He laughs and speaks with an exotic accent to customers with skin darker than mine. He looks at me as if to say "you shouldn't be here". And, I'm not sure if his eyes communicate a threat or a warning.

I'm thirsty, but I can't go into these shops. I would spend my money here, but I think my money is the problem. Proprietors suddenly lose their English when I try to buy a Coke. And, every poster handwritten in languages I don't understand seem to say, "you're not like us. We don't want you here." I wonder what the people who look like me did here. I wanted to live here.

In a month, I will move to whiter pastures, and regret the loss of this part of the world.

The neighbor's baby is crying as I arrive home. The neighbor's baby is always crying. The neighbors have nothing. Every Friday there is a mattress or ruined piece of furniture waiting in the trash along with piles of empty bottles. I celebrated my new job with an expensive bottle of wine. There is one more empty bottle waiting in the trash. I will leave soon.

I pull myself up the stairs to my apartment, unlock all the locks, and put myself on the couch. I'd like to take a walk through the park two blocks over, but it's too far away, beautiful, scattered with trees, scattered with trash, and I'm not welcomed there.

I fall asleep to reruns on a UHF station and honking horns.

The deck of a sinking ship turns up toward my feet as I dream, and I hesitate to use the lifeboat, because I'm the only one who has one.