Yard bricks displaced.
Wooden fence posts splintered.
A late night car hopped the curb,
ramped up my neighbor's driveway
and took out the corner of our fence.
A short fence, anyone could step over it with almost no effort,
but it kept people out,
kept us safe from bums,
random drunks, and passers through
that call this part of the city home
I prune the mangled bush,
pullout the corner post,
somehow broken where one end met the Quickrete,
and build up the corner from those displaced yard bricks
and loose soil so that the corner of our yard
can hold the fence upright once again.
A handful of new screws,
wood shimmied and screwed in place,
and the corner of our yard looks about the same,
though now hiding some rigged handiwork,
to make the fence
upright and straight.
Repairing fences was not
what I thought I'd be doing
in this city life,
but so it is
as I lock the door behind me
and sit to write this poem.
(Photo by thefixer)