All street scenes are essentially the same

Among a murky mid September night, I was found wandering amongst the old rowhomes and storefronts of a landlocked neighborhood tucked between the slurry East River and the white toothed maw of the slowly cooling Atlantic. Passing cracked windows, my worn shoes kicking up spent newspaper, I alighted briefly in an old doorway to an unopened burnt out and abandoned bakery. The entry was sealed shut by hard wrought iron bars imperceptibly blossoming into rust. From somewhere in a backroom a single bulb burned, casting long thick shadows ‘round corners, against counters. There was no noise, not of footsteps or hammers, only the light rustle loose cellophane strips make in a breeze.