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erubescent.

I walk here, daily, along various paths and flimsy purposes. Some routes are less avoidable than others.

A few blocks from our building, north and canted, there is a crumbling car park. It seems as victimized by the plants forcing themselves upwards to dissever its foundations as by the attrition of the rain, as though it has inconveniently found itself lodged between a forest of ambitious seedings and the wet sky, two lovers whose meeting matters more than anything unfortunate enough to interfere. It is always, and beautifully, empty.

A week ago or so someone dropped a watermelon (or perhaps, confusing itself with a raindrop, a watermelon hurled itself from the sky; I admit I can only guess how its pale striated half-dome came to rest, partial and split) against one of the concrete posts approaching the sidewalk. It’s been grinning there since, a demented pink-fleshed jack-o’-lantern with two raven-pecked eyes and a broken jaw, and its crazed face has become so familiar I imagine I will miss it when it finally melts away.