Walking home the other night
through that snug, smug, snobby slab of affluent similitude,
that will remain nameless,
I passed a vacant tract of virgin earth
amidst the overgrown, unnecessary wealth.
Bound on all four sides by
chain link, rusted in spots,
like an ancient chastity belt used for torture,
I wanted to climb
like I did as a kid,
kick off my boots
(It's really hard to climb a fence in cowboy boots,
especially that pointed toe kind.
They're just not
bare toes grasping
the metal pressing against the flesh
leaving an impression of crisscross lines and tiny stains of rust.
And once at the top,
with a thud,
to the ground,
wet with dew, cold and misty to the touch
caressing the bareness of the skin.
Doing cartwheels across the soft green grass.
But I can't.
Not this fence.
Not this lot.
Blocking my way
Big and bold: NO TRESPASSING!
and some red paint.
A flimsy excuse for security,
yet enough to keep me out.
And as I contemplate my timidity,
I look closely at what's inside this fence.
Definitely not the place for a "roll in the hay."
(Unless of course you like
In that case, by all means, do as you will.)
I have no desire to grab that rusty
hunk of metal and air
and cling as a I climb over.
I only wonder:
Why is there a
chunk of earth
in the middle of
"swimming pools and movie stars,"
stingy fools and flashy cars.
How do they stand for it?
They've never stood for it before.
Stood on it maybe.
Squashed it like the cockroach that it is.
Kicked it off the sidewalk
into the street.
Yet there it is.
And I realize,
I'm glad that ugly little lot is there,
A constant reminder,
And at least it's not a parking lot.