Fence

I wish I had been born a white picket fence
spotless and clean
with triangle tops pointing cloudward, parallel
to passerbys
A gap between each board shows what lies beyond:
a lush green grass
thick and a bit wild, nurturing not only
grey spiny weeds
but a daffodil or three; souvenir for
each walkerby
My sturdy presence would surround a cream-bricked
home, warm and well
protective abode from the meak, sickly and
stoic as well
And if a passerby cared to glance, he would
catch on the edge
of his eye a figure closing a drape or
a bicycle,
red, that's propped against the brick of a cozy
warm and good home