The Back Fence
A poem
Our neighbor’s tree,
dying and diseased,
broke our back fence,
the day after a tornado
killed dozens in other states.
There are gaping holes
in the high and white fence now, needing
to be replaced, and our dogs
can’t romp around unsupervised
the way they used to, as scattered
and wild as people posting news on Twitter.
But it doesn’t matter, does it?
We’re always building up fences,
crying when they are torn down,
never letting each other see into back
windows of our lives, always showing
those front-facing facades where the shingles
still exist in perfect rows and there are no missing
bricks or boards or plywood windows,
never letting each other
roam from lawn to lawn and house
to house, town to town and beyond.
I smile at my neighbor through the fence gap.
