Saint Alphonsus
They erected statues to the saint in the church parking lot. Around these, the church had placed pallets, trash cans, shovels, toppled ladders, and abandoned planks of wood. The stone statues teetered on the edge of parking blocks, his arms outstretched to the passersby on the sidewalk. Through a chain link fence I pressed my finger as far as it could go.
No. 164
Lot
The lot sloped up from the road, grasses and weeds growing between rocks lodged into the side of the mountain. Above it on either side stilt houses stood, accessible from a higher road. A faded for sale sign hung on the metal fence around the property. One of the ropes had frayed with the desert wind and broke off, so the sign rested at a slant. The remaining rope held taut, its strands bulging against each other with the force of gravity.
Upon the sign were two prices written in red ink, then scribbled over in black. A third, lower than the rest, was forced onto the edge, circled twice, and noted “final final price.”
No. 147
“Tow Me”
Abandoned car collects dust and tickets. Tail in the red the traffic cop noticed it, finally, after months of sitting idle. Nettles caked into the dirt. Around them passersby scrawled phrases, always from the car’s point-of-view, as if in its decay each felt moved to speak for it.
No. 146
Replacement
An apartment building in the neighborhood hired plumbers to redo the pipes. They came through and bisected the front lawn, then bisected the sections. From these narrow trenches they dug out the old, rusting pipes. As they pulled them out, the metal fractured under their touch. Metal flakes fell into the grass and became lost. The workers lined the old pipes along the side of the road. At the end of the day, job half-finished, they stuck metal spikes along the perimeter, then wrapped caution tape around each spike. The workers cut plastic water bottles in half and placed them like severed heads. As my dog walked past the upturned yard, he pleaded with his eyes to run in the dirt and dig the holes deeper.
No. 142
Family Store
Half the lights in the store remained off in the middle of the day. A few patrons stalked the aisles for remnants of ingredients. The freezers sat along the far wall, dark shelves sparsely filled with corrupted cardboard. Beside it sat the meats: discolored steaks, chicken, and seafood in a dimly lit case, no worker to help weigh your disease. The dried goods looked like a mad rush of people had stormed the shelves, but they didn’t; there was no crisis; it was the middle of July. The lone employee behind the register in a red, stained apron used a calculator for the total, punched it in the machine, and handed me a yellow receipt.
No. 126
destruct
An elderly woman lives in the house on the corner, has for decades. The trees on her property had grown tall and lush; they left her yard in constant shade, a shadowy grove hidden behind a rickety, white fence. Over time the wood has rotted. A handmade wooden stand holds empty glass bottles filled with rainwater. Orchids nestled in the crook between branches grow wild, are beautiful in bloom when the speckled sunlight finds its path between mottled leaves.
Landscapers for the week have parked their trucks, radio emitting the same playlist every day. They cut down the canopy in the back and piled branches along the roadside. They dismantled her tall fence and began to replace it with sturdier, darker wood. They culled the previously-wild front yard. After the work, any passerby can now see straight through to her front deck. The rattan chairs coming apart at the joints. The glass table holding a ceramic ashtray, several burnt stubs interred. If one stopped to look closely, they would see the yellow eyes of a rat, opossum, or skunk through the holes in the damaged planks.
No. 107
Fern
On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die.
No. 056
Facade
The scaffolding had fallen apart, either from the shoddy workmanship, or from the gusts of wind overnight. Walking past it the morning after the storm, it was unclear how long it had been in place. The wooden planks sat askew and looked weather-worn. The stone facade of the building had crumbled away, revealing the skeletal structure. The wooden staircase within, now exposed to the elements, began rotting. At street level the ceramic mailbox that always stood in greeting now lay crumbled in pieces.
No. 054
Disposal
April 18, 2026
An overturned Christmas tree juts out of a garbage can in the middle of April. I give them the benefit of the doubt: it can be easy to lose track of time amid everything else. In haste they left the string of lights and garland that shimmered in the spring sunlight. An uncanny shiver runs down my spine: I wonder where the April Christmas trees are in my life. Perhaps it’s too late to dispose of them.
No. 044