Porch Swing
Tamie Gaudet

It sways to a soundtrack
of muffled squeaks
that remind me of kissing
pillows to hide soft cries
from the kids playing

down the hall. It’s subtle
music that moves in time
with the rising morning
but it might as well be a dog
whistle to the briefcases

who drive away with coffee
still on top of their cars,
connecting caffeine and Jesus
with sleepy curses. Do birds
drink from these brown puddles

or would that be like licking
yellow snow? My toes can’t
resist peeling the paint
on the porch floor, exposing
the naked grain to the sun

as it heats the day two steps
at a time. A bee hums
across my hand. How great
to never worry about words.
I am still, afraid he will die

stinging and feed my conscience
random death for breakfast.
My eyes pause between blinks
to cup these small moments
and hold them still in prayer

before they fall
between the gnarled fingers
of the wooden floor beneath us.

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