A fence is not constructed.
Plain to the eye that sees
It rises from the earth
Of its own accord.April 2003
Father
I don’t want to wear the clothes of dead people,
I said, on sighting the pretty woman,
Who turned me into the face
Of oncoming traffic.I spoke with my father where he lay.
Was something on my mind
I wasn’t saying? He asked.
He does it every time,
Messing about in my brain
For his misplaced supremacy.The supine cadaver had malodorous
Breath and wore a goofy tie.
Tests in childhood showed him at the peak
Of bliss when in the speaking mode.
Being an old drunk didn’t mean he was
A bad one.Things were going OK until I remembered
The Bible he kept under his butt
And the cheat sheet he relied on
For words not his own.In a city of scaffolds
Things fall and fall silently,
Pipes and planks
And monkey wrenches
So remorselessly falling
On the unsuspecting below.July 2003