Sitting On The Front Porch

 

I watch your eyes as you speak.
The truth seeks a way out with each of your
giggles, with each squint,
when the sunlight strikes your face.
Bad news comes and goes with good news,
but we remember nothing. You tell me
we could sit on this porch forever
like two tomcats watching the land
for prey, each of us unknown to the other
as birds go whizzing by. I always believe
this glory, offering oaths to artifacts
of light, like the potted plant beside me
oceans deep in its soil. We search
the neighborhood, looking for worlds
to love. The robins in the yard rouse
us again to their constant work,
to the language of color we pass
between us with satisfied glances.
I learn your smile, its many ways
of cracking an egg,
how my jokes keep you young,
my routine of farm noises.
You appreciate me first. Then you
understand me, like a man beholding
a bear in the deep woods. I lean
against you, knowing you treasure
my furry depths.

 

 

 

 

Joel Fry lives in Athens, Alabama.  He has had poems published in Off the Coast, Iodine Poetry Journal, Stirring, Plainsongs, and several other places.  Most of his poetry is concerned with suburbia as well as the rural landscape of his grandmother’s old farm.  He also likes to introduce philosophical idea wherever possible.