The porchlight coming on again, <br />Early November, the dead leaves <br />Raked in piles, the wicker swing <br />Creaking. Across the lots <br />A phonograph is playing Ja-Da. <br /> <br />An orange moon. I see the lives <br />Of neighbors, mapped and marred <br />Like all the wars ahead, and R. <br />Insane, B. with his throat cut, <br />Fifteen years from now, in Omaha. <br /> <br />I did not know them then. <br />My airedale scratches at the door. <br />And I am back from seeing Milton Sills <br />And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old. <br />The porchlight coming on again.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1926/
