Junkyard Post Three Week One

What strikes me the most is not the artifacts, but a left over, a remnant from the family of this home. Maybe she was eight, ten, or a boy. Maybe this mark wasn't even a height, but a calendar, a day planner. Looking out the window, I imagine the dressed thespians in a tunic or toga, sashaying Italian across the mosaic'd grass. Some paint chips from the iron railing as a spider struggles to regain its webbing. I holler across the amphitheater for a couple to reenact Romeo and Juliet, and he scales the wall, not quite making to the window arch, not quite the Assassin's Creed. Some Australian tourists with earbuds stop at the gate, peer through the rod bars, watching almost enamored at our American beauty, or maybe the Roman recklessness.