Reveries From a Porch Swing

Dry leaves scrape against concrete dappled with warmth; By the sound, they could be drops of water chasing each other Down the roof and out the white-painted gutter, But they are not. Instead, they run an abandoned sprint across The naked no man’s land of my grandma’s porch— Maybe they are soldiers or pilgrims, tripping Along a chaotic march toward the greener side Of the yard—dutiful dancers who keep no one’s Time on an unswept patio stage, Maybe. But I think more likely They are old women with gray hair, who Bicker and cluck with top-heavy struts that fall over, And over themselves and each other—that Fuss with painted feather hands and Preen with removable teeth that pick and bicker and clatter together until The squawking is momentarily Deafening. I think it must be tea time at the hen house.