Front Porch in July

The cement sits blushed by the sunrise
simmering its steps, morning glories hang
from the corner edge, as if they can’t remember
the frost of fall or shade of winter.
A blue jay plunders an empty bird feeder
like the homeless man and his useless paper bags,
whistling, there is no food, nor water, or nectar—
the tragedy of concrete cracking.
The first step has pulled away from its foundation,
all visiting moths and salesmen should turn
towards the street a block down,
not be anxious about undergrowth
as time cools everything, one season at a time.












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