The yellow bug light on the front porch burned out and we're all out of spares so there's a white light shining on the front porch light, a soft white reading light, blue-tinged really, inviting all the bugs to come and see what we have on our porch all bright white and illuminated like never before, not even like the brightness of sunlight because the sun glows golden not white, everybody knows that.
I used to think the front porch was so romantic, the crackling wicker chairs, the old pieces of wooden furniture pulled out of the garbage or retrieved from the side of the road, a cardboard canister from next to a laundromat, next to the dumpster outside of a laundromat, the rusting wrought iron fencing closing in this romantic little corner, the stained concrete, but not stained on purpose, not stained by a professional, just stained by the elements, a tool left rainwater wet to deposit its copper color outline beneath, a puddle of motor oil from a returned, hardly ever ridden moped, the marks of the black rubber tires from the same moped, the ashy gray black around the base of the chimenea, the scuffs and dirt and bits of paper that sat there too long in the humidity and became one with the pavement.
But there's nothing romantic about a porch with all of the discarded things gathered on it, displayed around a sisal rug also taken from a neighbor's garbage pile, all alone, trying to cover up what is beneath, providing a place to put bare feet so they don't feel so connected to the grunginess, but what does it matter anyway if feet get grungy when there's nobody sitting in the other wicker chair to be annoyed by the grunginess of your feet.
Oh, turn out the porch light already! Hide all of this mess in darkness! Let the street lamp---
