ii. 

This black fence, raised by our duplex neighbours years ago
(one currently steps over the property berm to use our hose
on their half of the yard) after they came (or were?) home
and found on their higher-numbered porch people smoking
something (& masturbating?);
the memory seems kept unclear to respect the trauma;
the half-inch solid steel bars anchored in cement
pinning curled eighth-inch hearts now rust through
their paint to protect this; this fence could probably
arrest a car but couldn't stop an eight-year-old.

This summer slowly I've tried to bring the sidewalk
to our yard; housemates tore out the feral flowerless
rose, we put mulch and comfortable plastic chairs,
I read and eat here to try making space for quiet 
acknowledgement, dragged the charcoal grill
and marinated vegetables; slowly people look more
familiar and more often, though the fence chops off
the social ambiguity of any limbs extended over it.

This Monday I sat here with a book and paper
goggles high on my nose, eclipse bifocals; the
astronomical event brought people to the surface
nakedly curious asking to steal a glance as the moon
just started to nibble the sun; these were the first
conversations sitting here that I didn't initiate,
lower-numbered neighbours excited for the sake of
excitement, walking to see the heavens home through
their white fence of thicker tall plastic posts and
squared-terraced toppers like a Mayan flying saucer.