Here’s a bit from a story that I’m working on now:

In its’ corner in the backyard, the clothesline pole, edged by bushes, is imprisoned by a metal chain-link fence that separates us from neighbors.  The fence, like the 38th  Parallel between North and South Korea, is a divider between enemies with much in common.  An army-green board railing tops the tall fence, which runs around most of the yard.  A hedge separates us from the Irish Bohannon family on the other side.  There’s an opening in the hedge, with thick, crushed branches and leaves aside, a way for us to enter their yard.  Mr. Bohannon tells Mom that he has barbershop skills and since she doesn’t have much money, lets him cut my hair.  I sit on a stepstool in his yard, he puts a bowl on my head, and scissors around the rim, clips of brown locks cut to the grass.  We frequent the Bohannon’s Irish bar and grill, down on Myrtle Avenue, where we eat pizza, our quarters click-clack, roll into a jukebox to let love me do escape, as Daddy drinks whiskey at the bar.