Fences

It's too early
to build a fence.
You just began to move in
last night and already
my early morning sleep is
disrupted with
the abrupt noise of
a post-hole digger.

Welcome to the neighborhood, 
welcome to you and your fence.
I'm speculating now, 
as I lay half-dozing, 
forced awake....
I'm speculating on the purpose
of The Fence.
A fence, the first day?  Six feet of solid wood:
Is there something to hide, 
a garden of weed perhaps?
Or the dog, is the dog
a vicious beast of terror?
Or perhaps you are
completely reclusive,
resigned to living among
the humans, but determined 
to block them out.  

Yes, I find this fence 
vexing, almost insulting,
 and now
I can't get back to sleep, 
and the philosophizing begins.
Fence: is it symbolic of how 
separate we the people 
have become from each other,
of the distance that's grown
between our faces, 
as we hide 
behind our screens?
Just make it obvious, why don't you,
that in our society,
we're all losing touch
with the ones next door
and across the street....

But in the midst of my
growing irritation, 
punctuated by the dull 
sound of holes being dug,
I'm aware of rising whispers of 
jealousy, because,
secretly, perhaps,
I also would like to
enclose my house
with such a fence,
such a wooden wall, 
such an illusion of mystery. 
 Just think - 
 to be able to be concealed 
inside my paradise, to
dance in the moonlight 
on my porch, or
nakedly plant flowers on 
the front lawn,
and to make my neighbors 
wonder why I need 
a fence.

(But the not-seeing-out,
that, now that, 
would be insanity.)