The screen door still won’t shut
from the fight they had last spring.
She lied her way right out
of that door, and she hasn’t been
back – until now.

Now it’s cold, too cold for a Southern
September, but the front-porch fern
is dying just the same. The late night frost
reminds her that Summer has forgotten
to thaw her out. She’s bitter,

but she wears it well.
She wants to care, but she can’t recall
the last kiss that was more than a simple touch
of two mouths – a lip for a lip.
She wants to care, but her eyes are fixed

on the chipped paint on the wall
by the light switch, and the flickering light
in the hall. His eyes are closed.
The road home is long and dark. Her worn
out tires are spinning like the wheels

in her head. Her tingling chin is still red
from his scruffy face.