The Lowe’s Porch

is heat is low tide is watching

the granite boulders shimmer with

bits of hidden mica is the seagulls soaring the ocean

crashing is the people lazily walking by taking back

the road from cars flip-flops padding

across yellow lines uncaring about the two

cars patiently waiting is turning

a page in your book while the heat persists making

time move like honey is sitting in a well-loved chair old wicker

groaning beneath faded cushions is eyes longingly

staring at the waves wishing

you could make the tide rise hoping that soon

you can swim is trying

to play a game of cards but nobody

agrees on what to play is moving from

from one leisure to the next is the rough texture

of the sketchbook in your hands as you pull

it out of your worn bag the scratch of pencil

moving across the page powdery graphite

smudging around the new lines is the shadows

lengthening the twisting branches of the ancient

tree stretching across

the lawn the hedge whispering

back to the breeze tantalizingly drifting

off the waves promising an escape

from the relentless heat is the lowering sun glinting

off the backs of bikes leaning precariously

on the side of the porch tangled

into each other is the sun painting the

sky in violent streaks of color is people

walking towards you bringing plates covered in tinfoil chatting

while they walk up the steps to the porch flip-flops pounding

the white painted wood is the laziness of the day

melting away and you realize

the night has begun