PORCHES Hari Bhatt
It used to be just the stairs. Bleeding rust, coughing sand, chipping stone. Flanked by soft wood up to my neck on one side, hugged by the yellow house on the other. I’d lean over the ledge on my tippy toes, even when I grew as tall as I could be. Balancing on the first step, digging my elbows into the notches in the white trim, careful to avoid the jutted, rusty nails. I watched my neighbor’s houses grow old, I craned for a sliver of the beach. I waved at the passerby, and whistled at the cats as they ran from the shadows. It was a solo activity. Room only for one body, Two elbows, ten toes. Thoughts in one mind, Echoed against themselves. No disagreements, no insecurities. Just one torso, propped up as long as could be.
Anthology 7
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