Sitting late on a Saturday smoking pipes,
laughing. Drinking wine and beer, but
not too much of either. The tobacco
crackles, glowing red as the 10 o’clock
rainstorm blows in. We, porch-sitters,
rock back in our chairs with our feet on
stumps of wood and call out to neighborhood
kids as they run by.
Two dobermans chase each other to the end
of the street and yelp when they get caught.
The radio tower is covered every 10 yards by
gray clouds and a soft red light pulses behind.
Our hands smell like earth ashes and we look
far away like we are glad to be alive on a day
like this. The next door folk wave and carry racks
of bud light into their modest home that’s yellowing
around the trim.
Don’t ever talk shit about our town.
Sometimes it feels like we’ve been doing this a
long time, only to remember, that we are too small
of creatures to determine things like time’s passing.
I take a deep puff of smoke, hug my friends goodbye,
and leave with my head buzzing. A midnight drive is
perfect for a state such as this. Plenty of time to wonder
life’s big questions or small ones that pertain
only to me.