It is a long, low wall of stone. A parallel line marking parallel lives.
The boys who sleep furtively beside the train line boldly spread their clothes to dry on this wall. As if the railway were a river and the stones were still strewn on the bank.
The soccer players constrain their strikes and passes on the grass strip between the wall and the road. Only once was there a calamity, when the ball was kicked into the path of a truck. The small pop made everyone clutch their heads and turn on their heels.
The few fans of the twilight football lean on the wall as though it is a stand but with no turnstile to pass.
Lovers discover it is the perfect height. One may sit with their legs dangling shy of the grass while the other stands between their thighs, enveloped in their arms.
Others lay out their lunch beside them on the flat stone and plug in their earphones. They sit at an angle that allows a view of the harbour and the soccer.
Those who have no lover and no lunch may lie on their backs, staring up at the sky and swinging their legs against the wall with a satisfying bounce.