Faded Flag on the Porch

Crickets stitch the evening to the boards of our old stoop.

Dust in every picture frame, names I barely say aloud.

Mama folds the silverware like she's folding back the moon. I keep hearing

marching boots in quiet distant clouds. Home with a folded flag,

the house can't meet my stare. Coffee tastes like yesterday, the porch light

hums a prayer. Your letter's in my jacket, edges soft as wheat.

I walk the hall at midnight counting echoes in my feet. Neighbors wave in

daylight, say they're sorry for the pain. But nights keep