On the train to Coney Island today I hoped I’d see something memorable on the streets or through the windows. Something in between the weird businesses in Borough Park, the weedy lots and alleyways, the graveyard and the playgrounds, the misspelled signs and school bus depots. It was all beautiful but nothing caught my eye. Then, among the debris on a windowsill on the top floor of a dilapidated rowhouse, I saw a trophy. A modest one. Maybe wings sculpted at the top, I don’t know. Who had won it? What had they won it for? Who had put it on display.