american splendor (june's porch 2)

the sun started to massage itself          
over the spine of the window sill          
about three hours ago. Woman, child,          
big floppy dog, and man lying on the          
most comfy raft that ever slept down        
an ol' creek. Now ten o'clock,         
the day starts to shape itself    
from a porch in Pennsylvania.          
         
Mason Jar full of Jamaican black beans          
brewed through the rusted out remnants          
of a straight six; that has been sitting on this          
patch of land since William Penn freed the Injuns,          
walked while purchased, or some such thing.          
The Old Man who owns the place got the parchment to          
prove it. Tin of tobacco, sits in solidarity with           
         
jug of coffee. A soft kiss or two from Kali,          
her lips tasting of Kush. Garcia and Grisham on the radio          
telling tales about the gold rush. The missus jogging along          
the canal that George Washington built with wooden teeth          
to keep the fascists out. The mister is staring off into          
this spot in the tree line that always makes him mumble          
something along the lines of Ben Franklin having been 50          
miles north when he flew that kite. He says he knows it,          
and goes back to carving Botticelli's into sticks that          
always break upon the last scrape. He shows the happiest          
tear when this happens, says Mr. Franklin sure as shit          
broke a stick or two and Garcia, well Garcia broke 'em all.