On one corner is the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. At least the sign is there. Flaking shingles and a long ramp for wheelchairs. Mid block is where they recycle car batteries. A rack of work shirts waits for occupants. The air breathes empty under green lights.
Farther along the freeway has decided it likes this neighborhood and has opened it up like steel zipper. Houses without a country perch on a wire above. There is a hole in the block where the Wheaties box has been cut open for coupons. There was a supper club where Ellington played.
A shrubby groin of corner land surrounded by wire where the oldest Osborn boy came home from war. Homeless people sleep and toilet in the blue wall of sound. Over the freeway the dogs who once played with children here have bred with the cars. A litter of bull necked monsters idles gulping their own exhaust.
On the other side of the chasm there is a daycare clinging to the cliff. A little boy with a mohawk sings louder than the freeway for a sharp second or two.