Sitting On My Porch

Sitting on My Porch

The sky is a cold grey.
Clouds limp by like wounded soldiers while
the wind conducts the trees in a funeral dirge
for dreams long since dead.

I sit and sip coffee,
wondering how I got here.
The ceramic frog that was my mother’s
keeps its vigil on the porch that no one visits now.

Childhood memories peak at me
from around the corner of old age.
I cannot see their faces
through the fog.

Counting the few stars that blink
through the haze,
I wonder if wishes travel
at the speed of light.

My coffee grows cold
as night ages towards dawn.
The frog, his matte eyes never blinking,
guards the porch as I burrow under blankets
pretending I’m anybody else.


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