There should be a porch. An open
cube of wooden boards, raised by stairs
above a prairie, maybe farmlands, rolling.
The sky, which is still ink-pot-blue,
blue of navy uniform, blue
of night, trying to change its mind —
but too far gone to make it — the sky
should have some paleness shining,
shouldn't be this early. There should be —
a cat on my lap or an dog smelling rain,
there should be candles — maybe tealights,
maybe storm lamps swinging on an awning.
There should be tea cups cradled
and a chair that rocks
and a shawl.
There should be more
But this is what I've got.