What A Relief
We have moved well past anthesis. The vines have flowered and withered; the fruits harvested; purchased wholesale; purchased retail; displayed, according to their purpose, ornamentally, as turnips once were, grinning faces and grinning messages carved into their thick bright carotenoid rinds. The townhouse doorbell camera records the scene: a gourd to the left and a gourd to the right, a turd placed equidistant between them. The children of the neighborhood are innocent. Their parents are middle aged. They play no foolish pranks. They are conscientious. They will come into their inheritance later. The stool lies unbagged, was left without ceremony, by someone lacking a toilet. Once the site of an hourly motel, the block still retains its antique livery service. Luxury sedans slow, stop, and pick up various contractors, women mostly, then egress to the highway. Circulation between neighborhoods of upper middle income is achieved: class mobility. The contractors stand at a disadvantage. Their office has been pulled down to its foundation. Bathroom tiles lie shattered and scattered on the concrete. A cold heavy shower wets the ceramic. After a droughted summer, precipitation figures have regained their monthly historical average. What a relief.