just took a walk to the meat market on the corner. actual meat, not a bar. as i walked home with my brown paper bag tucked under my arm, i noted that eight years ago it would have been beer instead of chicken breasts in my brown paper bag as i slowly walked home. and i would have already been drunk.
i saw two live white cats, and one dead tabby cat on my walk. i went by that old run-down abandoned house that squatters obviously inhabit in lue of paying tenants. there is a new rent-a-fence around the perimeter. i walked around it and saw that a fire had occurred in the bedroom without a window that people would crawl in to sleep or whatever they did in there. in the past i have looked in, curiosity driving me, and seen the old bed and shelves that looked like they belonged in the fifties. books were strewn across the room, and everything was musty and falling apart. signs of recent occupation were mixed in with the old furnishings,  such as candy bar wrappers and newer books, like anachronistic bread crumbs.
         in the garage with the side door torn out there were stacks of old tires, and hand-built benches, and a couple of folding chairs arranged around an old storage box, an apple that had been used to smoke pot through tossed down with empty beer bottles. graffiti was painted sporadically on the rotting walls.
    most of the places where windows or doors used to be had old plywood nailed in their places, other than the few entrances unsolicited tenants had created. there was a giant portion of the roof, probably five feet square, that had fallen in, and a wheelchair ramp coming off the tiny porch, wood rotting, portions slumping from age.
      the backyard was large, and upon exploration i found an old wooden straight ladder that had been hidden under a bushy tree that hadn't been pruned in decades. i imagine the squatters used it to get in the window.
      this house is old, and it tells me a story. it tells me that a family was raised here, whether happily or otherwise. someone was born in this house, and spent many years growing in the rooms, sleeping on that twin bed mouldering in the corner. when the kids grew up and moved out the couple lived on, fixing cars in the garage, and fixing dinner in the kitchen. when they became too old to walk comfortably down the stairs a ramp was built, jutting out from the front porch, turning ninety degrees, and running down slowly to the driveway, where the car sat generally unused. when the husband finally died after outliving his dear wife (if you can call that living) the house went to the son or daughter that couldn't afford to fix it up, had no use for it, or perhaps were invalid, and the house sat there alone in it's entropy. perhaps some mementos were removed and carried to relatives' homes, but the furniture was left to rot with the house, the story of these people.
    eventually people without roofs over their heads found a way under this one. ninety percent of a roof is better than none.  as nameless as the original occupants to me, these untold number of vagrants have left footprints as solid as the owners did. some only found shelter for a couple hours of drugs and socializing, some found shelter from winter storms and a place to close their eyes.
       the fire damage i saw today emanated and was centralized from the window that people crawled in that contained the bed and books. i imagine someone trying to keep warm, and possibly read a bit, messed up. the fire department was no doubt called to put it out, it certainly didn't take out the whole building, and i'm sure the owner was forced to at least put a fence up around it. nothing else has been done, and there is no for sale sign.
      and there is no barbed wire around the top, so it only adds a small obstacle to getting in out of the rain....