Sitting on the front porch,
surrounded by purple, yellow,
white snow cone flowers,
I got Tommy Orange’s There
There in my lap and Jesse’s
swaying in the hammock, one
leg dangling off, a half hour
before my ride to the airport.
It’s a blessing of a day,
75 degrees, a cloudless sky,
slight late morning breeze,
wind chimes tinkling, someone
banging, building or breaking
something not too far away,
chickens in the backyard
making white noise, birds
landing on a home-made feeder,
looking around, bending
their beaks a few times
then going on their way,
some guy pushing a carriage,
baby quiet, waves as he passes.

I feel good after two nights,
three days living, enjoying
Jesse’s life. Already, I miss
him. But if I close my eyes,
remove Jesse from the picture
and had to spend a weekend
here by myself, I’d be bored
and crawling out of my skin.
Please fly me to JFK, get me
on that train from the plane,
save me a seat so I can watch
God’s greatest creation:
a crowded subway car
filled with all kinds
of people I’ll probably
never know bumping,
grinding, claiming, space.

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Image: “Hempstead Line” by Alex J. Tunney