The back porch creaks of age
as feet press a voice from its surface.
A song from a guitar keeps time
with the sway of lazy moss.
Crickets hungry for noise, satisfy
the appetite of their energy.
Dusty shoes got the soul of tapping,
slapping the ground with the beat of toes
and heels; music brushes their hair
as they set back with whiskey cooling
under their skin.
The sad closed eyes of a dog waiting
for death to throw the last stick,
lifts a crooked tail when his masters
guitar breathes a song on him.
Roger Singer 