Crepe myrtle trees with shocks of hot pink like my fingernails

stand like the Queen’s watch guards

straight as can be,

side by side with the old gate between them

I put my foot between the bottom crook

my hands sliding down, the bark

isn’t rough, it’s as smooth as lotioned hands

I caress the bark, feeling its strength

and peer beyond the falling gate

at nothing really special,

just a place beyond the gate.