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I'm sitting on the porch, mayflies are buzzing
Lemonade is cold, but sweat is pouring.
MaMa calls, and I lay back on the cool concrete
Pretending not to hear.

Eventually, I am lured inside
The promise of cold fried chicken
More than even I can withstand.
It's better than I anticipated.

In the cool, dark kitchen, after everyone is gone
I sit and listen for the cricket's song
And when the chorus begins, I return to the porch,
And wait for the call to once again, return inside.

MaMa is gone now, and the porch stained and cracked
The wisteria and begonias have ceased to be bushes
And have become, instead, prisons of vines,
Encasing the porch and the house in bars of leaves and blooms.

I still go there, even if it's only in my dreams.
I'm welcomed by the sound of the crickets,
the smell of the bougainvillea
And the distant laugh of my grandmother playing cards in the house.

Especially in the heat of the summer.

For deep thought, because he once told me grab my hand

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