the front porch is icy now

on the porch, downstairs, we sat and watched bugs in the summer, i got itchy. and upstairs i wrapped myself in a blanket, you smoked a cigarette, you didn't know why. we threw beer bottles into the alley, those of us with aim aimed into a cubby, or someone else's back doorway. we talked about india, about that train that changed the people inside but stayed the same through the time zones. i dragged the telephone all the way across the hallway, kitchen, out the screen door with an old fashioned doorknob. it was warm outside, i'd bet, and the wind blew into the stairwell.