To porches, 
for carrying the heavy late nights and the bountiful early mornings, 

for the oak to hold our treads, 
to cradle our sorry existences, 
to brace us under the lumens. 

a window isn’t enough. 

a space is needed,
away from the road,
and away from the bedroom. 
away from the bustle and breaking of all the existences past
the porch. 

porches are summer days, 
of wrinkly fingers and potato chips in sandwiches, 
of wet bathing suits and crumbly feet,
of sitting in silence in the sun because what is there to say when the sun shines in its almighty glory? 

Let’s savour slowly this delicious piece of nostalgia,
while we sit on the porch.