porch song
tiny patches of clover are
breaking through the brick
black-eyed susans sway
in this breath of autumn
circles appear intermittently
in the driveway puddles
signaling that it’s time to
change the reel so the film
can go on to its inevitable end
shoeless in long sleeves and jeans
I’m on the porch’s lone chair
wondering which one to
write about this time
the bottoms of my feet are
dry and cracked from months
of wearing nothing but sandals
they’re dirty, too, from the porch
tucked into the back of my notebook
is a slip of paper that reads
“perfection is a fiction of the mind”
maybe, but in two days I’ll be 39
and for the first time in four decades
I’ll be spending my birthday alone
8 September 2012
Ottawa
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