Hard yellow angles huddle in a pile, crimson mortar clinging to their skin with age. Pitter patter memories of families echo in their dense texture, of a home before decay, now forgotten remnants in a back alley. Chalk lines surrounding the homicide of a neighborhood.
Lipstick embossed cigarette butts, flicked from chipped polished nails of prostitutes click-click-clicking by in well worn heals, the new inhabitants between the rubble. Sup sugah..all teeth and glitter on the way to the evening.
City, the melody, plays on the non existent wind in the afternoon heat, up tempo and busy, the scrape and clop of the bricks adding the refrain. Mushroom clouds of red grout dust rise and fall, covering each of us in a paste, as we clean brick after brick after brick...take one down, scrape it around...
Tired hands port stacks across the silent street beneath the eyes of her inmates, trapped witnesses to the creeping demise. From alley to vacant lot, a trail of sweet works its way around blue steel dumpsters of trash removed to make way. Shallow furrows in the soil, the new home for the bricks, standing at attention as they snake their way through freshly planted trees.
Once a building tall, with splendor, broken, decrepit and despised, now a yellow brick road, shining golden in the sun, the brightest thing beheld by these eyes.
Beauty reclaimed, from the abandoned.