Property Line

I took the shortcut by the pharmacy,

cutting through the weeds and broken glass.

The bus was gone; there’s nothing left for me

but watching all the heavy minutes pass.

A jagged wire reached out and caught my sleeve,

a sharp, metallic tug that made me stay.

It didn’t want to let the fabric leave,

as if it had something it needed to say.

A scrap of blue plastic bag is tangled there,

vibrating in the wind against the steel.

It’s flapping like a lung that needs the air,

wrapped in a diamond mesh it can’t even feel.

The fence has rusted teeth that bite the curb,

holding back the lot of dirt and stone.

It’s a boundary no one bothers to disturb,

a line of silver rot that stands alone.