When Walking Next to Chain Link Fences

I love to strum the run

of tuneless anti-notes

these braided harps have strung

from post to post to post,

dividing fenced-in dogs

from lucky ones on walks

and Barbie-trapping bogs

of grass from sidewalks.

And when stray branches beckon

like wishbones from a shrub

I wish for one good weapon

and break off a billy club

with which I investigate

a picket fence’s gaps;

with which I decapitate

the weed between each slat.

And when the fence is iron

I clang my club across

its bars the way a warden

patrols his problem blocks.

But when these fences give

way to boundless lawns

my hand becomes the sieve

that can’t contain my yawns.

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