Neighbor, on his side, calls over
to the scratchings of my rake:
“How are you faring?”
“We’re managing.” My voice
clears that slatted wooden fence
neither he nor I erected
nor wished taken down.
Beyond that slender chink:
the most I’ve seen of him for days.
Hale youth to seasoned elder:
“Do you have all you need?”
Opposite that fence a decade,
we’ve seldom spoken—different lives,
yet on this day quite cordially:
“Of goods, yes. Family and friends we miss.”
“Same here,” and “Give a shout
for anything you need. We’ll help.”
Brent. His name I learned
through a postal worker’s error.
“Thank you,” and “Stay well.”
Then back we turn to our private cares,
abiding by a fence unseen, cruel wall
we raise between us as we go.
Darrell Petska, a Wisconsin writer, misses the hugs of his children and grandchildren.
