The Last Fence of the West

I put in the last fence of The West
An angry white man told me to do it
I hope he never reads this
He may not like it, but I think he'd say, "That's fine."

His anger is the source of my strength to tamp
It breathes into my fibrous sinews that stretch where wings shouldn've grown from deep within my shoulder blades
My muscles scream as I pull another shovelful of mother nature from her pores with the post hole digger

I'm not sure they'll do it, but they keep talking about building a fence between Mexico and the U.S.
just like Israel and Palestine,
East and West Germany,
and China and Mongolia

The last fence of The West is for chickens now
It runs the property line, but bows a little bit to compensate for a tall, huggable cherry tree.
Allowed to stand
I dream of a Wild West,
So does the angry white man
but even then it does not help as I wince from the blisters that come from using the long iron bar to tap, chop, and remove some roots from the depths of a post-hole that cannot go anywhere else.

I built the last fence of The West, but it may have to come out in twenty years when the posts, made of cedar, are too old,
or if someone who comes to own the farm wants it to be Organic.
They don't allow treated posts if you want to be organically certified

For good reason...
splinters from those posts are arsenic laced,
made my hands swell, gave me a headache,
before I read the advisory to don gloves before handling
and a mask if you cut them.

There's no telling what they'd do to animals.
They see infared.