Porches

The Front Porch.

The unsung hero of civilisation.

It was

On grand porticos of stone and marble

Where high-minded Greeks milled, thought,

Building the philosophy that would sprout an empire

In the fertile brains of Latins.

On richly carved wooden sanctuaries

Where Victorians sat in uncomfortable clothes

And disscussed matters of government and money

Over expensive alcohol and tobacco

In view of the forest soon to be cleared to make room for progress.

On dashing little extensions of cheap pre-fab dwellings

Where Middle America cultivated its mentality

In rocking chairs and swings and perched on railings

Between sips of lemonade from rosy-coloured glasses.

We will always return to the porch.

As children, to play after the tedium of school

    And learn about the world as we saw it from our lawns

    And fall asleep in the arms of our parents.

As teenagers, bracing ourselves for those all-too-familiar

    First hellos and goodbyes.

As adults, filled with momentary tenuous satisfaction

    Enjoyed in a haze of grill smoke, fresh cut grass, and other cliches not lost on the self-aware,

    All the while knowing that it won't last.

As old men and old ladies, to sit and watch and look back through the fog,

    Wondering when the porch got moved so far down the road.