The Zinc Fence in the Rain

The construction site has been here

since the winter everyone stopped

calling me back. The fence is that

corrugated zinc, all ridges and valleys,

a washboard for the rain to scrub.

I caught my sleeve on a jagged corner,

a sharp little tooth of metal pulling

a thread from my good sweater. I didn't

even yell. I just stood there.

There’s a sound when you drag a stick

across those grooves—a rhythmic stutter,

a mechanical heartbeat that doesn't mean

anything is actually alive inside.

It was supposed to be temporary.

The sign says 'Coming Soon' but the ink

is running down the plywood in long,

brown streaks. I’m still standing on the sidewalk

waiting for the permanent part to start.