The world
past the front porch,
watching the same
clouds set
in the magic
of the sky
prayers lift up from
swings and wicker chairs
escaping through
tired screens
cars passing
know only of roads,
the next corner
the direction home
or close to it
train whistles cross over
buildings and empty lots
to the porch where
ice tea warms up
maples and pines
seek a quiet evening
as the front light turns off
for the sake of night.
Roger Singer 