We occupied the antique husk of a missed atomic age suburban dream connection. Where once upon a time the streets were draped in prophetic embarrassments of jingoistic ambition. Now only lonely sneakers clung knotted together on weary power lines over neglected, aging pavement; like sad ornaments of abandoned momentum- purgatory dreamcatchers.
Still, half a century later the proud flame of brighter days blazed two streets away.
Its inextinguishable tongue lapped at the sky and bathed the darkest of winter nights in the soft, tangerine phosphorescence of a fading neon sign. Uniform and eerie, it permeated the air with whiffs of hard labor and cordite.
Wishes and dreams had packed their bags long before we were born, but still the glow of forgotten prosperity loomed our tireless neighbor. Like bearing witness to a captive, broken god.