We lived on 14th street then
Sometimes when it rained I would come home in the dark
And there would be working girls on the porch, smoking
And talking, the loudest was the girl with a blue plastic umbrella
They laughed at me, because they knew I wouldn’t party
I always said no, thank you, mumbled about being tired from work
Never asking if it was OK, they laughed and scanned the wet street again
Perhaps they looked at my porch as a natural formation
A cave entrance near the rising river. Like a bus stop with no cops
You bought blue lingerie, I think you needed it, or thought I did
Just wore it once, a kind of experiment, after that you were different
And we tussled under the tie-dyed sheet and tried again to combine ourselves
I sat in the overstuffed chair and watched the glow of their cigarettes
Went outside and gave them an ashtray. “Oh, thank you, honey.”
That house burned to the ground long ago
The City cleaned the debris and planted grass there
It was a big porch, tall and wide, the foundation was sandstone
I remember that only because one time the phone company guy
Complained that he didn’t have a drill long enough to go through the stone
Women came to me sometimes in the rain, sometimes staying for a while
Without venturing too far from the intersection, the inclined traffic
I told you the next day that I had no more love for you, I was sorry,
And you cried and ran out to the porch alone.