Something About Enclosure

The light was still good when I passed the address,

red-caught at the corner, engine idling—

someone had put up white lattice panels,

cheap plastic, the kind that warps by August,

over the whole face of the porch.

That porch.

Where I used to sit at eleven, midnight,

elbows on my knees and not going inside,

not saying the thing that would end us,

just letting the relationship end

the slow way, in increments.

The aluminum chair left a mark on the concrete

every time I stood. Small. Recurring.

Like clearing a throat before a sentence

I kept deciding not to start.

The light changed.

I drove through.

The lattice held whatever

it was holding.