The man straddled a weathered old bicycle at the southern corner of the open lot that rests on Azusa Avenue and Manila Way. The grounds, green and lush of taller weeds surrounded the man and turned him into an island in contrast to the greenery. He was wolfing down fries that he was grabbing from the greasy brown paper bag in his hands and every so often one would fall to the ground and disappear. His torn hoodie-sweater looked damp and clung to his fail frame and his jeans were stained at his thighs. It looked like he had been using his wears as napkins and all those wipes had become permanent on the pants. More fries fell to ground as he finished his hurried meal and I felt bad for this lonely man with the greasy pants, hands and beard. With the bag crumpled and the kickstand flicked up he began his pedaling and started to cross the street paying no mind to the traffic who had no patience for him. 

Then out of the weed field the tiniest Chihuahua I