The porch is quiet while the sky turns dark

The porch is quiet while the sky turns dark.

I’m sitting in the chair my father bought.

The wood is grey and shedding all its bark,

getting tangled in the sweater that I caught.

A frayed strand is poking through the weave

like a needle searching for a bit of skin.

It’s hard to sit and harder still to leave

when the unraveling has finally started in.

I feel the tension snapping in the seat,

one little snap for every year it’s stayed.

Just a pile of sticks beneath the heat,

waiting for the rest of it to fade.