near the fence, you're
an argument—
tattered, not fragrant;
more thorns
than petals—yet
fierce enough
to be here,
to press a point
that no longer matters—
to voice your concern
for childless mothers
and endangered
pink elephants;
for punk rock dads
whose roots are showing
and half-novels mired
in dark locked drawers—
in short,
for the lost race;
for the cursed family tree;
for the not-unhappy, dark
and stormy future
of irrelevance.
