The porch of my growing up
Remained my father’s realm
Most nights he would sit there
On his lawn chair with his Irish coffee
(We weren’t even Irish)
And contemplate the world
Weekends and summers when he was at work
(Hard labor on his bar stool)
My sister and I would invade that space
Makeshift rebels blasting our tiny transistor radio
Too young for deep thoughts we stared instead
Into Johnny Wilson’s bedroom window
We’d pet the splintered green paint
And declare it a good porch
The first one without my father
Proved to be a concrete stoop
The air buzzed with The Grateful Dead
And motorcycle clamor from the group next door
I had a dog then who lazed away the day
When the sun hit the step just right
Sometimes he let me sit next to him
And we pondered the postage stamp yard
He loved the birds and rabbits
(I can’t remember what I loved)
The largest porch I populated
Was a shady wood country affair
Porch swing hummingbird feeder
Plants enough to keep the world green
A welcoming lounge for animals
And the rejoice of banjos and dulcimers
In quiet times I studied the chapters of nature
Relished the ranting of stars
Now my metal perch rivals city rooftops
Man’s homage to tool and technology
But the evenings are cool enough to move clouds
And the wind chimes stay busy in their music
I lean back and sip my coffee
(No Irish in sight)
Muse the question: After years of porch zen
Was more gained looking out or into myself?
