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1926

by
 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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