Man on the Porch
T here’s a man who sits on his porch. Every morning. Every night. Like clockwork. I pass him on my walks. He’s always there—slouched in a chair, cigarette in hand, smoke curling around him like a sad little crown. His porch is cluttered: cars in various states of disassembly, old religious statues standing guard, and a confusing number of trash cans. Empty trash cans. Dozens of them. I don’t understand. It’s as if he’s collecting the idea of trash. And he never smiles. Not once. He looks heavy in the heart. Weighted down. Especially in the mornings, when the world is fresh and forgiving, when the air is clean and the birds are rehearsing their songs. That’s when he looks the saddest. Beside him sits a big black dog. No leash. Just there, guarding him. The dog doesn’t wag. Doesn’t chase squirrels. He just sits- like a mirr...
