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The Front Porch


 When I  visited the *P.K. in the

darkness of  cool Fall evenings we

sat together on a

swing set inside the screened front porch

watching people pass by toward or

away from downtown a

block away.


The picture

window and sheer curtains behind us the only

separation between our faces locked in embrace speaking in

tongues and the living room T.V. where the

Preacher and his

wife watched

Little Joe or Maverick.


My hand brushed past her brassiere filled with

breast I had never touched before when

came the sound of

clicking in the far distance getting louder: the

back of her mother’s hand rapping against

the window glass with her wedding ring tick, tick, ticking, the

same ring she wore when she

fucked another man, breaking the

preacher’s heart BUT giving him sacred

knowledge to preach about.

*P.K. Preacher’s Kid



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