Notice how I wondered

Notice how I wondered: is it vomit? You walk along the footpath towards the pulped white pile and the asphalt that is darkened down the slope in the silhouette of a dried, dead octopus, and it matters how you stride towards it -- whether you pick your way over the tentacles or flatten them nonchalantly -- because it seems, even as you are alone on this street and all the windows in the houses are blank, that there is always someone who is watching how you walk and taking note how you react to the leavings of others.