Sheltered

The rain fell like bullets
On our aluminum roof
The year that food stamps delivered Christmas,
And you worked the night shift,
And begrudgingly, Sharon came to watch us.

Sometimes, though, when you were home,
You and I would bask on the wooly carpeting
Of our sheltered porch together,
To hear the thunderstorm beating
At the grey and hardened ground.

When I asked you, “Is it safe out here?”
You told me to count the seconds
Between each rolling crash of thunder
And blinding flash of lightning.
You told me there were that many miles
Between the storm and our warm porch –

And I believed you.

Because on drier nights
The sunset was our very own,
Kindling the horizon
Above the tinder box trailers,
The driveway-capsized rusty bikes,
And the children playing barefoot in the street.

I never imagined we would leave that porch behind.
What else did we need,
With a sight like that before us?