Front Porch
I was there when they poured the concrete.
We nailed together the wooden formwork ourselves,
migrant workers under brims in the sun,
watching the rumbling belly of the truck
spit up grey, thick globs.
We spread the stuff with hoes,
my father and I. Ironed out the bumps.
I want to put my hand in it I said.
Better hurry before it dries up.
He guided my palm down,
his thumb breaking the surface,
giving my hand an extra finger.
The sun baked our work and my father
said we’d have to wait to walk on it.
He didn’t tell my mother.
She came home, bags in her wide arms,
pressed her heel in my hand and
yelled at my father for ruining her shoes.
My father said not to bother with the mess.
Football was on and he was eating hotdogs,
And I couldn’t fit my hand in the print anymore.
We nailed together the wooden formwork ourselves,
migrant workers under brims in the sun,
watching the rumbling belly of the truck
spit up grey, thick globs.
We spread the stuff with hoes,
my father and I. Ironed out the bumps.
I want to put my hand in it I said.
Better hurry before it dries up.
He guided my palm down,
his thumb breaking the surface,
giving my hand an extra finger.
The sun baked our work and my father
said we’d have to wait to walk on it.
He didn’t tell my mother.
She came home, bags in her wide arms,
pressed her heel in my hand and
yelled at my father for ruining her shoes.
My father said not to bother with the mess.
Football was on and he was eating hotdogs,
And I couldn’t fit my hand in the print anymore.