On the other side of the fence,
the neighbour’s grass is lush
and weedless. I see him kissing
his stunning wife, tenderly,
without hesitation.
On the other side of the fence,
I see the public school
where children tumble,
laugh, dust themselves off.
Recess comes twice daily,
and at lunch the shouts
are louder.
On the other side of the fence,
I see the skyline miles away;
clear glass towers
holding clouds
but for a moment,
the ones that sail through sunlit blue,
and I think I see a window-washer
dangling like some Spider-Man –
with binoculars I make him out
and though I’d never do that job myself,
I imagine the pulse of life
around him
five-hundred feet mid-air,
his beaming face
bouncing back at him
from the translucent, 38th floor.
The fence
in my backyard
is far too high.
I’d like to see much more,
see what lies
beyond the pillars
of banks and monoliths,
the foothills in the distance
which rise and drop,
like breasts that lift and fall
in heated breath,
like those of my neighbour’s wife,
who sunbathes
while he’s away,
a hey there look that’s thwarted
by the noble tenth commandment
and six feet of cottonwood.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
Comments