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.



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