I don't have my father wandering
huge fields, fixing fences
making plans; no concern
for anything outside his patch of land.
Someone somewhat similar stomps
the fields stretching inside of me.
Of the tribe that heeds no warning
indifferent to all the others
and their noise.

Trained from birth to wear the smile 
of civilization, the moderns
with their claim to be interchangeable
carry me in their crowd.
A cardboard cut-out among zombies
someone similar would laugh.
Chatting amiably over a pint
or pouring over a text
the wind changes and I feel
my good self, governor of the inner fields,
approaching a poor fellow
a determined rascal, fiercely extant
 fixing his fence.

As with some binocular device coming into focus
the two figures move closer, merge, snap together.
I'm glaring at the dry earth, it's sighs of dust.
This stick will be planted if it kills me.
Teeth clamped like an impassible gate
curses escape me. The post goes in at last 
like a spear piercing a mammoth
and I relax into a satisfied smile.
There's another sharpened pole on the ground
and another, and a waiter standing by
"...like to see the dessert menu...?"