the distant lives

the last step,
painted from a can
of throwaway green,
slick oil
on rotted wood.
watch the last step
you'd hear people say
as they exited
the screen door,
going down the unsteady
porch,
a panel
ripped open where
the dogs
slid out, barking,
into the dirt yard,
and the laundry
hung heavy and wet all
day across the line.
the chain link
fence separating long
linear
lanes of broken dreams,
settled
disputes,
children unclaimed.
how the wind did blow
on young cheeks,
harshly through holes
of old coats,
hand me downs.
wool sweaters, dungarees,
how quickly
it came and went.
all of us moving to the sides
of our own
distant lives as each sunday
we marched
to church, listening to the bells
that would ring and ring
and ring.