The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead
Raked in piles, the wicker
Creaking.
Across the lotsA phonograph is playing Ja-Da.
An orange moon.
I see the
Of neighbors, mapped and
Like all the wars ahead, and R.
Insane,
B. with his throat cut,
Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.
I did not know them then.
My airedale scratches at the door.
And I am back from seeing Milton
And Doris Kenyon.
Twelve years old.
The porchlight coming on again.
