A man, you see, holds onto the fence. He holds it like a fourteen year-old girl’s hair when he’s got his tongue in her mouth. Tight, firm grip. When he steps up he wraps each finger around rusted wire, installed by Waterman & Co. circa 1978. He holds the fence like it’s the baby he’s going to produce with some haina. He can’t be down unless he holds the fence. He can’t be a man until he gets book bags full of sharp cornered books dug into the soft between his shoulder blades by his homies. In other places he would get beat down to the floor leaving him bloody meat and beggin’ strips. When he holds the fence here he is bound to let his back take the beating. When it’s over he can let go of the fence and wonder why it mattered when it didn’t really hurt at all.