Walking by an unfamiliar part of my old neighborhood.
Seeing the screen door of a brown house with a steep lodge-like roof
And the white empty Victorian chair.
They are waiting for the warm house in me.
Remembering the tiny crawl-in log cabins
Something rustic and playful.
People spending time on their porches,
talking, enjoying their porch.
It felt together, slow
with the unkempt dry weedy lawn
and the brown chipped paint on the wall.
An enclave of homes on a dirt road,
kids owning the street,
blurring the property lines.
I could almost taste the barbecue,
the tricycle dust, the ice-cream truck bells,
I could almost taste it from afar.