Frury Lane

Parched dirt contrasts to the oily asphalt on the road that I live on. An old rail yard transmogrified into a new suburb installation. The top soil is teeming with life, while the old ground below glows gently with the waste spilled over half a century. The houses pop up overnight, yet it's still a desolate avenue next to an old neighborhood.

The mornings have a hum of slow, boiling work. Radios blaring the chitchat of disk jockeys discussing traffic and sports, while union builders trundle up and down the skeletons of the future strip mall.

There's no view better than from the overpass. One side, the height of luxury, big and expensive houses with expensive cars parked in the driveway. On the other, an industrial road, paneled with companies creating or destroying products. A dilapidated sidewalk, covered in trash and filth, constantly commuted upon by vagrants and the homeless, searching for recyclables and a safe place to rest for the night.

Without a second glance, the wealthy pass by it, never acknowledging the destitution, while they gorge themselves on overpriced instant coffee drinks and non-gmo burritos crafted by college students.

Even I am guilty of overlooking it. I walk through it on my way to work everyday, and never give it a second take. I'm sure you're guilty of doing nothing too.