Project

Gray, ugly, already starting to crumble. What the project’s planners had meant it to say was: The future is here. What the residents heard: You do not belong. Fortunately, it was possible to pry the windows open. On any given night, you could stand on the street & watch the litter sail out: Happy Meal bags, cigarette butts leaving trails of sparks, yesterday’s paper. This year-round autumn blanketed the courtyard, & was only swept aside when the police needed to outline in chalk another occupant who’d vanished through the one good door.