purple stains on green grass

I dance along the iron fence
before the yellow house
on mulberry lane

"there is no fence,"
you say -- truthfully
I think.

So, I am the one lie
the world is protected
from

"why would you say
there is a fence?"
you ask.

The mulberry tree
sits behind old number three
the golden paint flaking

it is irony, i tell you,
just that and nothing else.

i would pluck a berry, but
the fence keeps me
on the street

"there is no fence,"
you insist
loudly.

the rock that was so safe
when we played tag,
"Ghouls!"

"What are ghouls?"
you ask
politely.

Safety, i say
just a place
to rest.

"Let's go sit on
the rock," you laugh

I can't, i tell you
it is irony
that fence.

"there is no fence,"
you tell me
again.

it's only 30 years
later and still
i can't go home.