Always on the porch
looking out but staying in,
not surprised by metal men
with gentle lights firmly pressing
by my shrubs and flowers.
I do like when wind brushes my hair
along my face as if someone notices
I’m standing obediently.
Dust gets kicked around
like my heart
and grasshoppers cavort in ways
I imagine I would if had days to live.
My bread is almost ready
but I want to see where men will go next,
as if any place is different
when there is a hole in the middle of us.
The sound is just a rumble,
though it might be my blood in my ears
rushing and pounding like a waterfall
or maybe a bird taking flight.