White Fences

dogs smile a bark
feet trample Rose gardens
and the paint is peeling
    on the Back Porch.
we shallow our fears
behind Weekend projects
a new latch on the fence
    to keep the Sky away.
Mom's maple shades our view;
    the blurred cry
too many angels fallen
on battlefields grown over,
drive-by shadows,
the Atomic dilemma,
a terrorist's release
(it was our Oklahoma).
fading the peace at the
empire of our Dinner Table
  conversations smolder beneath
    the buzz of a broken Television.

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©Denise Angela Celeste, 1997