The wood was cracking, like a piece of jute
unwinding. Bowing in the center, searing
the newcomers, its veins of rot were covered
in globbed brown paint and now were tombs for bugs.
Dead ferns litter the dying deck, wilt over
the sides of pots, their octants spiraling
their iron pose. A cheap ornateness for
the crushed home. Your attention, stolen by
a hook on our screen door, has not seen me
for months. You take your beer. I keep
my coffee, hiding from moving vans
that wait outside, so idle and impatient.
Now, in the afternoon, the only kid
around is bruising up his knees,
and mom is right behind. It all excites
him, even when it hurts. His laugh should be
contagious. I should want to listen.