Sacramento hides its tenements with shame. The city is meant to be the face, the core, the jewel of California, and so the poor are swept into corners nestled underneath the junctions of underpasses.
A three block section of structures stand in grey-brown brick, with several noticeably shattered windows on lower floors. A black scorch mark stains an opening on the fourth floor, an indictment of the city who sent help just a few minutes too late.
Parking spots are plentiful on the swiss-cheese street, few have the luxury of automobiles in this neighborhood. Hell, you'd probably be stupid to park out in the open around here anyway.
Polo waits patiently on the sidewalk, wearing a sports jersey and medicine beads from his wrist up to his elbow. The heat is sweltering, and the smell of trash is baked into the concrete long after rain sweeps the refuse into the sewers.