With Friends On a Porch At 11:35 Pm
The white paint has long since
popped in the humid summer nights.
The cracks in the ceiling arrived
before your foot ever crossed
the soft threshold of this place in time
The black cloth of midnight draped on eight tired shoulders.
Together, ensconced in orange porch light
the quilted threads of your lives mesh together.
The warmth isn’t in the fabric,
it’s in the knowing look she passes you as you fail
to light your cigarette for the fourteenth time.
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