The Ridged Wall

The rain is coming down in sheets,

metal on metal, a rhythmic thrum.

They’re dragging fencing across the streets

until my teeth and my ears go numb.

The corrugated panels catch the light

from a streetlamp flickering overhead.

Rusty ridges, orange and bright,

like the bones of a city that’s already dead.

It’s a jagged sound, a serrated scrap,

vibrating deep in the bed of the truck.

A hollow rhythm, a metal trap,

where the water and the grime get stuck.