I cross a bridge and a lady walking a muzzled dog, unleashed, stops to talk, hands drawing pictures in the air.  I stand still and listen.  She points to bottles on the ground, debris.  When she finishes I speak, giving myself away: I don’t belong here.  But we understand each other, know what is said and unsaid.  Bottles abandoned, carcasses of a night forgotten.

Back at home I once found a dirty diaper on the front lawn of the house next door.  The empty house forlorn, weeds like tree branches cling to the facade, holding on.