Fence Line Flag

The bus was late, of course.

My eyes caught on the fence,

stretched out beside the lot,

a long, dull scar of steel,

too high to jump, too low to hide.

Rust bloomed at every joint,

a dull, brown bruise.

And up there, snagged

on a sharp, bent barb,

a plastic bag, thin white film,

a supermarket ghost,

fluttered,

a pathetic semaphore,

sending messages

to no one,

about nothing,

just trembling in the breeze

between what’s kept

and what’s let go.