Porch

Just one day
another hot day in the summer
closer to the sun than ever
bottle rocket screams and
Roman candle smoke
and lightning,
lightning on the mountains,
air so heavy it wants to
drop--
rain.

The concrete porch is a friend to me
empty cold and listening
as barren as I'll ever be
little red wagon wheels to fix
indefinitely,
broken spigots on the ground
cobweb floorboards and cracked welcome
bricks
and dried straw filters that smell of
mildew--
fog.

The fan cranks hot air over sweat hair
all night long
over me and the couch and the corner lamp
past my bike by the unwashed laundry,
third try still deflated
I tried so hard
I ride out in the
morning--
dawn.