The Geometry of Keeping Out

I’m taking the long way home,

letting the wind rattle the diamonds

of the perimeter fence by the old lot.

It’s a cold, metallic sound, a skeletal shiver.

A salt-stained winter glove is snagged

on a rusted twist of wire at the top,

one of those sharp, bent crowns

that keep the world from climbing over.

The glove waves a flat, desperate hand

at the cars screaming past on the bypass.

It’s stuck in the mesh, begging for a body

that finally decided to leave it behind.