on the fence

Always one joke too soon or one silence too long

There’s a fence in front of me.

No matter where I go,

left or right,

back or ahead,

the fence follows.

Or maybe, I just picked a path with a lot of fences.

When I jump short,
I slam into iron and spikes.

It makes them laugh, turn their heads,

giggle and point.

Only to run off, speeding ahead.

Away from the fence that won’t budge.

When I jump too high,
soar over their heads,

they scowl like I’ve cheated.
They don't follow.
They let me vanish.

I burn calories calculating small talk.
I rehearse smiles like I'm auditioning for a role in their lives.

Still, I miss the beat, the nod,

the right shade of chuckle.
Always one joke too soon
or one silence too long.

And no one sees
how hard I try to leap at just the right angle.
No one sees
the bruises from landing wrong so many times.

They only see a failure to arrive
or a refusal to wait.

I don’t know who put the fences there,
But I know this:

I am tired of splinters in my hands,
and bruises in the shape of trying.

I’m on the fence—
not because I can’t decide,
but because choosing never changes the outcome.

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