"A hooligan cat homeless and tattered, hungry, and lurking on my porch battered;
a bitten ear and one eye, brought him inside and life was never the same ."
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I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he’d stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
explaining how easy it was to find if you knew where it's hiding...
('Salat Days' by Michael R. Burch)
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sittin on the porch pickin ideas like fleas
swimmin' in the space between words
crushed suddenly by the slammin of opportunities door.
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Sitting on my front porch, thinking about my past, wondering how I got so old so fast
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