By Matt Barrett
Broken fences tend to fall when energetic youth hop them for balls
That have sailed far beyond the green of their green.
“I’ll get it!” he yells as he plants his foot on the bottom board.
It snaps like the crack of the bat that sent the ball sailing.
And he looks at me, unsure of whether or not he’s in for it now.
The crowd falls silent as his pride cowers in the dugout.
But it’s not your fault.
It’s no one’s fault.
Fences tend to fall.
Broken fences tend to fall when neglect moves in.
He pays room and board with a beating heart that he
Swiped off the counter in plain sight,
Right in front of the previous tenants,
A young couple with their lives before them.
She’s never coming back, they’re told.
You can use the crib if you’d like to fix that broken fence.
Broken fences tend to fall as the paint does.
Rust-red paint that flakes away in the rain.
A storm-strewn twig brings down another,
And it falls in the green of their green.
No baseball today.
All fences fall someday.