Climbing the Fence

You come on a fence in your meanderings. It is not the first.
It seems the wilderness is full of them, fences.
Instantly your mind goes the same place
every fence takes you to. Is it meant
to keep out or keep in?

You are not good with fences.
It is a bad habit you have held since childhood.
You immediately think about how
you would climb over it. Often
you do. Not because of a need
to get to the other side, but simply
because the barrier is there, a challenge
in your mind, even when it was not meant to be.

Most of the time, you were never a consideration
when the posts were dug in and the boards,
wire or logs were strung. They don’t know you
from the man in the moon. It is the idea of you,
someone, anyone who does not belong. Or
someone, anyone who should not leave.
Maybe they knew me better than I thought.

It is a good fence. Solid. Wooden crossbars
on locust posts. On your side is sand and ocean.
On the other is a field. Yellow green grass and flowers.
It is set on a wall you have to climb
before you ever get to the fence. The fence itself
is not too imposing. You have climbed worse.

It is probably a fault, this antipathy to fences.
More than once it has landed you in trouble
but it seems you are slow to learn, either that
or you carry a resentment from childhood.
Your therapist would probably have a field day
with the whys, but you have never thought
to discuss it with her. It does not feel like a fault,
even if it is.

This particular fence is well groomed. Well kept.
No splinters to be seen. Solid. Recently stained.
Anyone who knows you knows you are
going to scramble over it. And you do.
To see the flowers you tell yourself,
but you have lied to yourself many times
and know the truth. It is the resentment
that drives you up the wall, over the
cross pieces to the field where no one
will see you. Only you know
you have crossed the fence.

Another barrier crossed. It is what you do,
right or wrong, and there are arguments
on both sides, legal and spiritual both.
You do not pick the flowers
You are not a thief. Only a wanderer
filled with a backlog of rage and fear,
kept in check until
you encounter a fence.

About this poem

About fences of course. About me. About the artificial barriers in life and society. About forbidden love, About my wonderful first therapist, who I am told still reads my poems. Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture was taken at Kennebunkport. I climbed the fence.

Tom