There, the rain fell.
We ran up the street, barefoot on the pavement.
It smelled like summer and the air was cool,
it smelled like plush grass and unimposing rain.
The porch door slammed its hollow, creaky shut and
somewhere maybe someone burned a wooden-smoke barbecue.
I sat on the porch and felt the house’s history behind me.
A calm clutter cradled you, always enough room for too much love
where it didn’t fit.