The less said about this garden the better, but I will try. A fringe of green (which qualifies it as a garden) makes a valiant effort along the edge of the kinked chain link fence that defines perhaps the least welcoming entry of any home on Capitol Hill.
Perhaps the residents consider it a carefree patio. Swept free of debris and leaf (difficult to do considering the canopy of trees that line the broad avenue it faces) and neatly bricked from steps to stoop, chairs and tables would sit steady, with no need of a matchbook or wadded gum to prop uneven legs and keep the coffee from sloshing. That is if there was furniture to be seen, which there never is.
What anger led to this? Consider the effort to upend and flatten the soil, the tedium of laying brick against brick against brick. This cannot be a happy place.
The house is occupied, the gate is ajar today. Someone is breathing behind the tinny slam of the storm door.
Shudder.
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