Their door is just far enough
from the street, when we get there
I feel like we’re inside already.
There are signed paintings
of long dark meadows
in the bathroom. Doug’s bookcases
look as old as his books.
Their kitchen belongs in one of Aunt Joanne’s magazines.
There’s a dozen cans of Long Life beer
and a vegetable plate on the counter.
I sit on the kitchen porch, ten feet
over their hugely green back lawn
and close my eyes.
Some people are arguing on the back porch
of our house. I open my eyes
but they get blurry the closer
I look. It’s a woman’s voice
mostly. I lay down
Every time I think I understand
them they say something else,
like they just changed their mind,
like they can’t even agree
what to argue about.
When I wake up Mom’s dangling
her legs off the porch next to me.
She says it so soft, I think she’s as ready
as I am.
Time to go home, Sweetpea.
Time to go home.