Sat outside under the tin porch roof, back
Up against the door of the raised shed, her
Rump on the two cinder blocks that had been
Placed there years ago in temporary
Measure until the steps were built. With one
Half full and two unopened hard packs of
Cigarettes in her coat pocket, huddled
With her phone in front of her face reading
Fantasy books syphoned from her mother’s
Digital account. The shed blocks her view
From cars passing on the old country road
And the neighbors who watch through their bedroom
Windows or front porches in the scant few
Houses separated by pine scrub and
A good country distance. Nestled neatly
Between the lawn equipment, a pile
Of scrap lumber, two table saws, and her
Pile of old cigarette boxes and ash
That swirls in the breeze leaving spiraled piles,
The neighbors wouldn’t see her if they cared.
And they do care—with that old southern need.
The kindness that hides a deeper meanness
Evident in the way your name whispers
Between the trees, swirled and settled, spiraled
In piles like the ash from trash wood and brush
They are constantly pruning from their yards.
therichardbraxton 