My love is white wash on a fence
that so many have trespassed.
Long splinters like jagged rose thorns
tug at the skirts of women walking by.
For a moment, I have their attention
until they curse their luck
carefully drawing fabric from pine;
Leaving me even more imperfect
than when they first found me.
My sharp flaws stick out cruelly,
more likely to snag the next.
Wistful threads of pink, yellow, and baby blue
hang on me as souvenirs,
a callous reminder for me of every passerby
who never returned to sand down my slivers
and return my graying architecture
to the bright white luster
so long ago once found me.
I have only begun to learn
what so many
take for granted;
That fairness is always unkind
to the one
who maintains it.