I kiss the spliff as the neighbor
across the street stares out his porch windows.
He clasps his upper lip
with his left hand—
thumb and pointer finger
split like a horseshoe.
The difference in temperature
from outside and my porch
is hardly measurable.
The feathers in my jacket
fight to keep my body heat
captive beneath my MAS*H sweatshirt.
His porch must be a four-season
because he hovers over his desk
in a t-shirt with a cigarette
in his mouth.
Maybe he’s writing, or reading,
        doing homework or work work.
Whatever it may be,
it stirs a bit of jealousy in me.
I wish to be home, sitting
in the warmth of my four-season porch,
where many stories are saved.
Scrapbooks full of memories.