The Zinc Shield

The old gate finally gave up the ghost,

hanging by a thread of rotted pine.

I spent the morning digging out the post

and clearing back the ivy and the vine.

The new one is a cold and spangled gray,

galvanized to never feel the bite

of all the rain that’s headed for the bay

or the heavy damp that gathers in the night.

It has a pattern like a frozen lake,

a crystalline and industrial kind of skin.

It’s built for every storm that’s bound to break,

and keeps the world out while it keeps me in.

I touch the metal, hard and smooth and new,

and wonder why I’m not as tough as you.