walking slowly to watch the demolition on eighth street, a lascivious security guard matches my pace. he stares into my turned upwards and away body, leaning in so close that i feel like he's going to put his head down my blouse. the machines tear cement off of rebar and toss the rubble down where other machines break it into smaller pieces and organize it into piles.

a woman in a blue jacket stands in the sun, facing the laundromat. she holds a big basket up next to her head and doesn't move except to squint and smile as i pass.

the man who makes jesus figures on the street is there while i admire his handiwork. he watches me take pictures, then slides his finger across his throat and turns to urinate against a wall. when i put my key in the lock, i turn back. he is standing on the corner looking at me. he spreads his arms, drops them, and turns away.