Guarded

See the stained glass?

If zombies ever overrun the rest of the country, I think New York City has better than even odds. Did the city already survive an attack? Sure, in its own way. Look closer at the hordes of hungry shufflers and you will see echoes of the same invasion. They won't bite you. (Keep your health insurance up to date, though.) The disease is poverty, and just because the wealthy don't understand how it transfers doesn't mean they don't fear it.

I get it. I grew up middle class, in suburban Cleveland, and while I went to school with a few threadbare kids stayed well above the poverty line. Homeless people scare me. Even if they're not all alike, I tend to treat them as though nature posted a big "Do Not Touch" sign on their backs. One guy in our neighborhood in blond dreadlocks walks around with a cart, makes magic signs with his fingers and curses under his breath. I get why you would want to fence that away. 

Another guy, of similar build but older and pushing a stroller full of knicknacks walked past me the other night on the way back from the gym. I stepped away, frightened for a moment until I realized he was just wishing me a good evening in his own quiet, dignified way. People root through our garbage several times a day, enormous transparent trash bags full of bottles balanced on their backs. New York City made a big recycling push years back, but I wonder if it's not just another way to fine landlords for trivial offenses. Certainly it would hardly be necessary if you could trade in money for cardboard. 

Like a cheap '70s exploitation movie for churches, here we put beauty behind bars, then lock it behind gates, cover it with barbed wire and scaffolding (to repair the crumbling fencing), then wonder why we stare at each other with such hungry eyes.