The Percussion of the Porch

I’m standing on a porch that used to be mine,

waiting for a lawyer’s clerk to bring the pen.

The weather is turning, a gray, thin line

moving over the hills and back again.

The nylon flag on the neighbor’s house snaps,

a sound like a wet towel hitting a tile floor.

It’s a violent, sudden rhythm that traps

my attention while I stare at the front door.

Clink, clink. The brass clips hit the pole,

hollow aluminum ringing out the time.

It’s a lonely music that eats at the soul,

a steady beat to a very quiet crime.