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Order this writing in the book What Lies on the Other Side the cc&d Jan.-April 2021 magazine issues collection book		get the 424 page Jan.-April 2021 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Front porch

Patrick T. Reardon

5:30 sunlight, 5:30 shadows,
afternoon on mundane Paulina Street,
shadow-light layers,
on oak trees, lilac bushes, unmown grass,
Fords, Toyotas, Hondas, Chevrolets,
shadow-flecked red-brick wall, white-mortar-lined,
galaxies upon galaxies,
from 6220 to Granville Avenue,
cosmos of particles,
a robin che-upping a manifesto
about ownership, propagation,
extinction. Chicks to feed.

Siren over on Clark Street
forever approaching
until, finally, past and away.

Each bag of bones and blood, flesh and water,
cushions, cradles, clasps, cuddles, contains, constrains
a new born —
each rapid-Polish cellphoner
crouching to pick up his tiny dog’s tiny shit,
each tall-sitting bicycle woman, goggled,
each radiant girl in flip-flips blushing into her phone,
each trucker and cop
and strollered-child and basketball-dribbler,
masked and unmasked,
each father, daughter, son,
each me
— each new born
and yearning to find home
inside the electricity of muscle
and snap of thought
and unrelenting confusion of each day.

Breeze, almost cold.

Look at me on this porch here
in faded red t-shirt “Barnaby’s,”
worth a buck-off at the pizza place in Niles.

I am, like any of you,
new born with every second’s accident.

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