Let us think on the porch darling. Sit anywhere you like. I sit here because it fits me.
I can get up quickly, if need be, possibly never return.
You stay here with the morning sun dripping on your forehead.
Banjo eyelashes keep rhythm
to cracking knuckles
and duck feather ripples.
You look good there,
the furbrown of your skin evaporates into century old wood. Hair uncombed a scientist’s delight.
Strongwide hands, fingers, read my mind. I want to sit down but can’t.
My skin itches, my bones have termites.
I distract your yearning for company
with a teethsmile and lemonade. Sour. Sweet.
As the day passes
the porch sags around the edges.
Insects and leaves inspect creaks and accustom themselves for naps with full bellies. You, my dear, do the same.
I watch your chest, it inflates, deflates, inflates, and so on.
My feet take me to here, where I sit,
relaxing a little, balancing my head on my neck.
I stare at the locked front door of this house. There has never been a key that I know of. Or inhabitors. Just you, and sometimes me, sitting on its porch.