MEN ON A SUMMER PORCH
The apartments sit where an old house was,
Victorian porch wrapped all around,
white railings cradling
but not saving it.
These porches are tiny and cement,
men with bronze hands sitting there,
grasping grocery bags of lunches
Spanish words telling how
bossman’s lettin’ twenty go
and maybe we gotta go back,
two of them on a narrow bench
sweaty work clothes touching
backs stiff against wood
like prim arthritic ladies
out on a warm afternoon
taking tea together
in bone china cups,
sitting on the edges of truth.
I relish this poem by a talented, sensitive writer. This one paints so vividly the contrast of the migrants and their everyday American counterparts.
Harold, thank you for reading and your kind comments.