The neighbor is out with a bucket of white

The neighbor is out with a bucket of white,

masking the rot on his side of the line.

He’s making his cedar look upright and bright

while the gray, mossy boards are all mine.

A dog from the corner squeezed through a gap,

a loose-hanging slat where the grain went soft.

He sat on my porch like a quiet, fur trap

watching the dust motes spinning aloft.

I reached for the latch and caught my good sleeve

on a rusted nail head that wouldn't let go.

It’s a jagged reminder of why we don’t leave,

or why we stay here and let the weeds grow.