There is a cheeseburger wrapper crumbled and lodged between the edge of the foundation and the pavement, it is soggy and flecks of ketchup stain it, a spare diced onion has managed to escape and teeters on the edge of total emancipation.

There's the blue hand of a little boy, raised on McDonald's happy meals and hamburgers, the boxes of dry cookies and the occasional baked apple pie, maybe a McDonald's cone. He is broken on the sidewalk's edge like a rag doll, his hand scraped above the concrete, the skin ripped off but not bleeding because it was ripped after he'd died, his mother a wife-beater and an alcoholic, his father a prostitute.

A discarded coffee cup, stained brown, the twizzle stick to blend fake milk with the fake coffee piercing its side, close examination reveals the coarse edge of styrofoam, environmentally safe styrofoam made without chloroflorocarbons. The rim of the cup has been stepped on and broken, but still manages to hold its mouth open, to pour the coffee in and pour the coffee out.

That's a leg. It was severed at the knee from the teenager who ate at McDonald's every Friday by himself. It is a fat leg, the blood has drained away from the ragged edge and you can see the thin layers of gray muscle supported by thick deposits of green-yellow fat. The bone, somehow, is blackened, embarrassed by the trauma that separated it from the fat dead teenager over there in the gutter. The skin is blotchy and greasy, the ants run over it in definite paths.

The sidewalk is stained where the milkshake was chucked to one side, bursting open and splashing vanilla white paint all over two squares, pooling in the crack in between, milkshakey tendrils reaching out to cover as much ground as possible, to reach out blindly for the hand that tossed it aside, the shake stain leeches itself on the pavement and tries to recover the cup which has rolled a few inches away, straw still in, attached to the plastic cover, which maintains a tenuous grip.

Blood stains from the man who's head was dashed against the ground, his misshapen head staring into then gutter, a lawyer, a teacher, a welfare cheat, a state legislator, a secret vice for Big Macs, what blood remained after death still managing to drain out of his ruptured ears, his body half-on half off the curb, one of his shoes gone. One of his shoes, gone.

A pristine box for chicken mcnuggets, weighted down by an unopened barbecue sauce cup, one half-eaten mcnugget remaining. Tiny bits and pieces of spices, of pepper and salt on the mcnugget, more sandy salt adrift on the white box bottom, the box is resting neatly against the edge of the building as if it is resting it's back, resting it's lid, waiting patiently for some one to come look inside and take what he likes.

An old woman, severed half-way up her chest, her face a rictus. Eyes thankfully closed. What remains of her dress is flowery and dulled by the sidewalk, it is ripped just below where her body has been ripped, it is half-off one bony white shoulder. The tendons and muscles in her neck stand out in bas-relief. A half chewed-pickle solidifies on her black lips. She clutches a plain hamburger with only one bite missing in one hand, her arthritic fingers gouged into it, in her other hand is the wrapper, the wind tugging it from between her thumb and two fingers.

The brown paper bag that it all comes in. Forgotten fry, ketchup packet, bleached napkin at the bottom, wrinkly at the top from where it was curled up and carried, grease stains on the side, black and red inked receipt stapled to the lip. It is open, largely unmolested, scooting in the breeze at an inch an hour down the sidewalk.