On a line, the sheets hung
And were warmed by the sun
As mother leaned back in her straw lawn chair
For a breather.

Beside the patio, with a candy-red wheel barrow
A metal stick
And pure brawn
Father mixed wet cement for the foundation
Of their white picket fence.

A ways off, charcoal garden gates swung open
From a light push
And Ricky chased his sister
A plastic worm dangling from his small hand.

In a few years, father and mother’s fence base
From heat expansion, would crack
Because, in their neighborhood
Over half of the inhabitant’s fences
Already crumbled.

But they hoped
Their foundation could be repaired
For their children’s safety.

And they hoped
That hope wasn't futile.