Porch
home is
an endless V of trees
a red apple
that fell up
a cardinal not of Rome
where the train trumpet blows
and the church bells chime
where the soft sun
readies for the moon
and sips the raindrops
off the roof
where an agile squirrel
swings from vine to vine
like a tiny Tarzan
where somebody’s grilling something
that smells awfully good
and the guy on the corner
catches a whiff
on his way to his horse
the one with the mechanical mouth
that chews all the grass
round his two-tiered box
where the loud voice
in the little, bitty body
draws closer
and closer
and further and further
from the creek
and then she’s there
dragging her daddy and her dog
leaves in her hair
dirt everywhere
speckled in sap
and powdered in pollen
she smells like
a forest in springtime
and where she is
is where I am
and I know
I’m home
TL