Greasy chips and sweets for the taking.
But they cleared it to make way for a underpass and an overpass
Or a combination of the two, I cannot say, for what does it matter?
On its ruins, there sits a man now;
Making conversation with the flower seller a few feet away,
Under the harsh glare of passing headlights,
Amid the dust kicked up by a thousand feet,
Selling hope in the forms of little balls of light,
Eliciting a smile and a pause in those who stop by to notice.