Only the tubes and bags and cups aren’t for sale. They’re crushed, stepped on, trampled. The exhibit placard reads “Found objects from the streets of Manhattan.”

I study the objects, searching for hidden meaning but find none. I shrug and glance at Sabrina. “I don’t want to be one of those ‘why is this art’ people, but . . . why is this art?”

“I don’t know that it’s art, so much as it’s odd,” she says, crossing her arms as she regards the display here in Tribeca on the tip of Chinatown.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, thinking. Trying to connect the dots. “So it’s odd. Is that why we’re supposed to like it?”

“I don’t even know if we have to like it.” She waves a hand at a shelf of discarded honey-roasted chip bags. “I like that it’s entertaining. That it’s strange. It makes me think about all sorts of things.”

“Okay, Rodin,” I say, naming the sculptor whose most famous work was dubbed The Thinker. “What do these trampled-on toothpaste tubes make you marinate on up there?”

Smiling, she studies a wrinkled bag. Fire-hot, it promises. “It makes me think about things we overlook. Things we ignore.”

“But shouldn’t an empty bag of chips be ignored?”

“No.” Her tone is strong, laced with unexpected emotion.

I step back, giving her some space. “No?”

“You should clean it up. Throw it out.”

“Fine, true,” I concede. “I wasn’t advocating being a slob. And I’m totally against litter. But why do old tubes of toothpaste and empty bags of chips affect you?”

As she stares at the display, sadness flickers across her eyes. Her lips form a straight line, then she breathes in deep. “I think people, places, and things get ignored. And this exhibit forces us to see what we’d rather ignore. Every day, we walk past uncomfortable sights, we weave around painful conversations. And other people ignore us. I guess I like this place because it reminds me not to do that.”

As I study a coffee cup with tire tracks on it, I suspect she might be onto something—a universal sort of truth about human nature. “How to be a better human,” I say.

“Yes.” Her lips curve into a grin. “That’s what I would call this exhibit.”

“So you’re saying that perhaps looking at trash—displaced objects—makes us think how we can treat each other better?”

“I do believe that. Is that cheesy?” she asks nervously, her right hand fluttering to her hair, patting her silver bow-shaped barrette. Her phone’s not recording, and I like that we can enjoy a few moments just for us, not for print.

“No. You actually made sense of something that I saw as kind of pointless, to tell the truth. I don’t know that I now consider it art, but I guess it does make me think a little more deeply about what we ignore. I’d like to believe I don’t ignore the people who matter. I went to see my sister and her baby earlier this week. I try to see them every week,” I say, maybe because I’m looking for points.