Porch Face

As I sit on my shaded front porch
next to the water-marked fence,
a sniffing dog -Ignatius-,
roaming cockroaches,
busy spiders -Charlotte?-,
and fading fern plants,

I notice the heat;
mostly, the sweat
falling from my hairline
down my forehead
over the bridge of my nose,
through my lips,
and falling off my cliffed chin.

I wave to my neighbor,
as she walks past my world,
walking her tiny rat-dog.
She sweats, too, and
marks the world with her Yankee scent.

Then, as the heat begins to get to my head--
the sweat no longer cooling it down—
my mind starts to drift, fall, and walk on it’s own.
It staggers, like a drunk man on the street.
It holds itself up with a street pole or park bench,
whichever is closer.
It focuses on material things for orientation.
Steady, steady; one foot in front of the other.
It attempts to juggle but falters,
hesitates,
and returns to comfortable themes:
love is all, music is love, and
everything is everything.