There's a light on my front porch
that comes on when I open the door at night.
I step outside to light a cigarette and
stand there under the bulb
watching the bushes move
with the wind and the scurrying of
little lizards.

But if I stand really still,
the light goes off and
for a few moments, I can disappear.
I can still hear the crickets and
a few cars in the distance, but
it's disembodied sound.

It's quiet. Dark. Far removed from
the reality illuminated by the sun
during the day and the sensor light
on the front porch at night.

I focus all my energy on
keeping my movements small, controlled.
The slight rise and fall of my chest as
I breathe. The modest shuffle of my
feet as I shift my weight from one
side to the other.

My thoughts are completely occupied
with making sure I stay invisible.
Reality exists only in the glow
of that wretched porch light.

But eventually, I feel the heat between my
fingers, jolting me back to an existence
where I have worries greater than
making sure I stay absolutely still.