A puzzle
The first thing I see is one of those oceanic feeling mega dumpsters. Throw yourself in, or, at the very least, throw some bit of detritus over the precipice. Who knows what’s in there.
Violent fuscia blooms of an unknown variety on my left flank, and in the oppressive not-so-summer-anymore heat, a voice wafts over the sound of dim traffic. I can’t make it out yet, but that won’t last. 414 Key Lime House, squatted on a corner, demanding attention. A boy runs out from the house, some small keepsake held to his chest, and he squats in the dirt in front of a massive gnarled old oak across the street. A man comes out after the boy, saying, “you need to start respecting boundaries.” There is a pause. “Why are you ignoring me?” The man asks.
I leave the domestic bliss and its incumbent buzzwords, stepping carefully over a plate metal walkway across the sidewalk. They’re always so thick, and I never understand what they’re for. Heaviness?
The signs are more green than the trees consuming them, burned brown by the sun. I continue through the rushing traffic, past the massive apartments that all look like bomb shelters, and always say “now leasing.”
The neighborhood shifts, becomes quieter. Houses on this block announce themselves less, with more muted colors and less immaculate landscaping. Next to a house where day laborers stand on a rooftop, in long sleeves and sweat, I stop to admire a flock of ducks, plastic and porcelain. One is wearing a tiny cowboy hat.
I move from shaded spot to shaded spot, allowing my mind to rest, but my brain has been baked by the heat, of this I am sure. A skateboarding teen with a helmet zips by me. Finally, before the QFC, there stand two trees, massive, dead. They are overgrown with moss, artfully trimmed, but not by the human hand. They reach for the sky, a perfect blue.