lung foundry

Stronger stuff. Mock orange floats on the breeze heavily and amber lights flicker on in the craftsman houses of south Berkeley. Past the coin laundry and the dog park, under the freeway, construction gives way to dilapidated Victorians. Carlos smiles, "evening, Miss Lady" when I buy raisins and not much else at the suprette. All is quiet under the overpass. No wind to rustle the garbage, even. Seven dandelion puffs on the corner, a garden of wishes.