Why I Skip the Front

My neighbor sits with her coffee at seven.

The mug leaves rings on the railing,

dark circles like proof of something.

She sits there long enough for the coffee

to cool, for the evening to think

about becoming night.

I go around the back. Side door.

Don't have to see the porch.

The front door opens to a space

that wants you to slow down, to notice

the light changing, the air different,

the day leaving you. I used to do that.

I used to sit and watch the street

turn into itself, watch the neighbors

watch me watching them.

Now I just cut through the house.

Close the back door soft so nobody hears

that I'm home. So the porch stays

empty and I don't have to explain

why I stopped sitting there, stopped

letting the day touch me at the place

where people are supposed to rest.