Behind the Fence
A pink playhouse stood in the yard
but there were no children
as I looked out the upstairs window.
The woman about fifty walked around
and talked on her cell phone.
Her yard was well-kept and one afternoon
a man was mowing it. He did not live there.
She stood in back of her garage one morning
and did not wave as I walked to my car.
A housemate said she was mean.
I couldn’t say.
All I knew was that she kept a fence.
A story longed to fill in the gaps
of what I didn’t know. It begged
to be told.
I had moved into my loft a year ago
after suffering losses to write a new chapter
in my life. Every morning, I looked out
with new eyes to look at the sun
as it peeked over a crown of trees.
I talked with a neighbor across the alley
on Thursday mornings when we took out the garbage
or on the days he hand-washed his vintage cars.
A labor of love, he said.
Every quiet morning the block held dear
our private lives.
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