The back porch came to the house
after
the two bedrooms, the living room
and the kitchen.
It came after the outhouse closed
and was replaced
with real plumbing and pink tiles.

The back porch room has always been
my playground-
a safe room
for me, the cats,
my grandmother’s spade.
It’s where I did my best boy band ‘woohoo’
and belted showtimes to no one, in particular,
pausing to bow
before the piano,
the dusty crooked windows,
and ceiling tiles that would eventually
fall down
around the ceiling light from a roof
gone bad.
The gut of the house, its politeness
lives in the back room.
Always has, always will, I suppose.

Metallic dust settles on
on my tongue, my fingertips
after sorting through boxes,
and for a moment,
the old shelves have returned-
shelves filled with books,
seed packs with past due
expirations fill my memories.
The magazines, sheet music
and hurricane lamps still gather dust, too.

But the moment passes
-as moments do-
and I am shaking the weed eater free
from the hedgetrimmer,
sneezing from a combination of
dried grass and old wood.