It's where the nails can be found. It's where the college students' drunken babble echoes on Thursday nights.
Perpendicular to it in a driveway, clean neighbor is vacuuming out her car.
A little while ago, she was pulling the arm of a man, helping him up, from the alley.
He: Shirtless, tattooed, sunburnt, with bowed and poorly functioning legs.
Thank you, ma'am.
He stooped over unsteadily five times to gather the pieces of something he dropped when he fell.
A case like a little space heater, but with wire pans with handles of some kind.
You know my eyes are bad.
To fall there, when there was someone around to help him … I suppose he might fall frequently.
Yesterday driving home down Troost from a gallery, we saw a person crossing the street whose legs were similar.
And last week while walking to work, I dialogued with a fellow with nearly the same limp.
I'm glad my legs work, even if they are inelegant and usually shod against all fashion.