The Gate

I grew up in a cul de sac off
of Main Street,
a slice of the American Pie,
nice houses, paved walks,
backyards,
trees and shrubs,
all so middle class
with picket fences delineating
and dividing manicured front lawns.

A rustic wall of tightly piled
rocks and stones, held
in place by weight and gravity,
shielded the entrance
on both sides of the road
from the sights and sounds
of passing traffic. 

Forbidden as a child
to go beyond this point
  alone,
I would go up to the corner
at night to watch
and listen.
Cars and trucks came
and went,
flashing lights, the buzz
of electricity,
a cacophony and symphony
of movement
to the beat of life.

And I would dream
of wandering
down that busy road
that flowed
in two directions
and visit intersections,
explore side streets, alley ways
and take in new vistas.

It wasn’t until I was a teenager
that I saw the wall
for what it was;
an ornamental facade
a  bulwark of
  the American Dream.
.