Porch Door
June 29 2008


I’m tempted to say lawnmowers,
especially the kind you push
— the pebbly sound of moving parts;
the whir of its thin curved blades
sharp as scythes,
flashing through verdant grass.
Or kids, shouting in the distance
— the sharp crack of bat on ball,
nailing the sweet spot
in fine-grained ash.

But I think it’s the screen door, most of all
— wood-framed, well-weathered.
That satisfying “thwack”
swinging shut behind you.
And the rasp of the spring when the wind catches it,
flapping, open wide.
And the angry buzz of mosquitoes
on the other side,
smelling blood.
And late at night, the porch light burning
as a moth as big as your fist
hurtles against the dented screen
over and over
— a loud insistent banging
as if a small carnivorous bird
wanted in.

In those golden summers
we would be gone all day long,
running out with the dew still burning-off
slamming the door behind us.
Or in-and-out
— appetites bottomless;
guzzling fruit drink
that was comatose with sugar
and glowed fluorescent green,
a colour not found in nature.

And hot nights, just the screen door closed
— a cool breeze,
or sleeping-out on the porch.