At-Hand

AT-HAND

Nothing new, just a flare-up of the old 

chronic condition, chief symptom of which

is wishing for the neighbor’s fence 

and all that it encloses. One supposes

that given a large enough yard

and a floor-plan with plenty of space

for the children to go, or rather 

no yard at all to mow and only the square 

foot you're standing on to heat and cool,

(maybe a pool, the neighbor’s spouse

to share it with you,) that last,

firm grape will quit slipping the fork 

to explore the wide porcelain plate

of possibility, at last coming to meet 

the mouth with a deciding crunch. 

One supposes all kinds of things that aren’t

true, reaching across the table for another

grape instead of the waiting spoon.