Porches | Michael Gorski
When farms faded from your big borders
Then you were a city.
Block after block laid
Upon the flat land to the south
Of the falls. Avenues turned from
Their river alignment to follow a compass arrow.
Neighborhoods spread afield
And Immigrants followed plans
For houses, practical, attainable—
Houses with porches open to the world.
Sixty years later these heavy-built porches
Still extend towards the paved streets
Like covered bridges or wayside rests.
Boulevards of trees have grown large.
Porches permutated, changed their guise.
Porch becomes bedroom sealed in for sleep.
Porch becomes windowed for spring and fall.
Porch stays open with planked floor and posts.
Porch holds chairs, tables, plants, a grill.
Porch connects to street, inviting, like a
Picture window connecting house to sky.
Increasingly isolated, alienated world of disconnection,
Porches reach to the street, to community, neighbors
And there is no TV, only that which is palpable, real—
The lawns of green, awning-like elms, kids on bikes.
In air-conditioned suburbs—no more front porches,
Just garages, decks to the back. We value cool breezes still.
Even in Southie, old black men sit in open garages in alleys where cars go slow.
Even in Eden, old white men sit in open garages on curved streets where cars go slow.
We are guarded, waiting for connection, waiting for the world and it speeds by.