The Porch Poem by Clifton King

I bought this house for the porch,
open to the west toward the Pacific.
Ocean breezes curl above the railing
and nudge our windbell into song.
This neighborhood is a bit older
than I’d like (But then, so am I.)
Evenings I wrap myself in the quiet,
a security blanket worn thin by the years.
This old porch is more than concrete
and wood, brick and mortar.
This porch is a day at the beach,
a night in the desert, an afternoon
in a lover’s bed. It’s a trip down PCH
in that fast lane of my youth, the first
girl I kissed, that day I filed for divorce.
This porch is the morning my mother
died, our Paris apartment, that train
trip we didn’t take to England.
It’s the evening my daughter was born,
my first and last day of college,
all those skipped classes in between.
This old porch is our day in Central Park,
Strawberry Fields and Yoko’s apartment.
It’s Monet’s lily pond, my bronzed
baby shoe perched on the bookcase,
our wedding day. This old porch
is that Harley I rode too fast, the first
time I held my granddaughter,
the last time I saw my father.
This old porch is you and me
together in that warm wind of life
flying our love like a kite.