On a dewy moonlit front stoop in September the hiss of extinguishing embers in an ashtray drowns out crickets (in the city? Why?) and truck horns from the highway while the neighbors drink cheap domestic beer and sing out loud to radio hits, sounds penetrating, muffled, through heavy doors.
Stretch arms up with back cracks side to side, bending forward and considering the pile of paperwork shoved to the side of the desk, next to a *** full of water that only occasionally spills, only when the chair pushes against the side of the smooth black surface, only when there's been one too many and the Saturdays are full of drizzly skies and shouting at televisions as men jump and yell and throw themselves into each other such that organizing space is much less than a priority.
There is a spot on the front lawn where grass is reluctant to grow that on the Fourth of July held a folding table with red plastic cups and awkward side glances to try to obscure the uncomfortable meets and greets and questions asked with eyes and loud patriotism bouncing off the street still warm from the afternoon sunshine.
The dust of front window and squeaky red door pulls additions when stomping feet on soggy doormat and turns quickly to mud on the concrete step that is home to insecurities and broken promises that fall from mouths well trained and bike accidents of a karmic nature.
Squint and smile into the dark with toothy grin that mocks and muses and beats down on insecure eyes spread wide with admiration seeking your go-ahead, the few moments of your life when you drop your shoulders and admit that someone else has a point.
Touching hand to doorknob, a waver. Hand reaches into pocket and pulls out another. Lighter flicks into shadows lit by a moon too bright. You sit back down and listen to the night.