Cleaved

That fence

Draped in sun bleached plastic beads

A pathway to my rock

Which is also a rolling stone

The only moss he gathers is mine

And that of his burdens

Sometimes.

His old ramshackle apartment

Wedged in an alleyway off of Camp and Magazine

Never to return

Only remembered

For those days we spend intoxicated

Hanging once bright Mardi Gras beads

On a fence with no purpose

Other than to gather and collect

Not contain.