I know they’re over there, the new folks.
I can hear their little dog wailing,
smell their wood fire smoking.
Their odd bit of fence ensures
our mutual exclusivity.
Where once I could see sunsets kiss
goodnight the far treetops, a demi-MacMansion
and two-panel length of stockade fence,
just wide and high enough, block leafy horizon,
the only view I care about out back.
The fence reminds me of a stand-up goalie,
isolated, moving forward out of his crease
to appear bigger than he really is and block
sight of his goal. If that’s their goal…
I’m sure, like Frost’s abutting stone-stacker,
the idea of the fence gives a feeling of masked,
tall and suburban Jacques Plante-ness.
I feel the diminution of my view of Nature
and ancient memory of what neighbors were.
I’m thinking of planting a new sun kissing tree.
Deke right, head fake up, wrister. Five hole.