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Back Porch Muse

Why write at dusk in tingling

mist, on sidewalk jewels

near hydrant pearls, asphalt sequins

sizzling clear in streetlight blaze

caught in tips of drops

tiny clear globes

everywhere I look?


Word hermits

will go anywhere

to get away

will sit unmoving

for hours, all but the hand.

Even forgetting to eat.


Though the chill has settled

the thrill is a furnace turned up

like that old metal box

on the back porch

creaking with heat.

When once it broke

our parents fought

it cost too much to fix


but a seasoned heater man

a muse of sorts, crouched

with his pants half off his ass

and holding worthy tools

wooed that blast of heat

back to us. He made his notes

like these, mapped the route he took

and left.


It seemed a miracle

the house like toast.

One should lift a glass

to such grace

or a pen, like this.


for my sister Sal on her birthday!


Café du Soleil, SF

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