Singing On The Porch

Tonight, a third listening ear,
the moon eavesdrops on our conversation.
Neighboring homes darken
and their lawns open into shadowy vistas.
Blocks away, nutrient rich
and phosphorus-based, the bay exhales
a whiff that wrinkles noses.
A gentle comb, the breeze has begun to
untangle the day’s problems.
Our wives off to bed, a splash of Scotch
unlocks memory’s closet.
School buddies lost to the mist of time.
Details that conflict entirely.
The greatest hits of stories shared before.
No, it wasn’t that we fell
asleep still talking, merely that the quiet
inserted itself between words.
Lengthening like the night’s the shadows,
what we no longer had to say
mattered just as much as conversation.
Somehow, we knew our
‘golden oldies’ could never compare to
the moon’s recollection.
Besides, after a soundtrack concludes,
there is nothing left to sing.


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