1926

 The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead leaves
Raked in piles, the wicker swing
Creaking.
 Across the lots
A phonograph is playing Ja-Da.


An orange moon.
 I see the lives
Of neighbors, mapped and marred
Like all the wars ahead, and R.

Insane, B.
 with his throat cut,
Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.


I did not know them then.

My airedale scratches at the door.

And I am back from seeing Milton Sills
And Doris Kenyon.
 Twelve years old.

The porchlight coming on again.

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