the man on the porch

Locked out of the holiday house
sitting on the porch for hours
just me and a scattering of scandalised ants
fretting round the tiles and plants
(what’s he gonna do?
I’ve no idea do you?)
while swallows dive from smoky heights
to thread the sultry air with advice
have you tried flying under the eaves
thanks but I don’t need wings just keys
to end my lonely vigil please

Locked out of the holiday house
yawning, watching the cars go past
just, me, the vines and a lemon tree
whose ripening fruits hang patiently
for a hand to reach out and give them a squeeze
or a hand to reach out with a spare set of keys
(she’s sending a mate;
I volunteered to wait)
while scooters like wasps buzz along the street
and wasps like scooters park along my feet
everything adrift in the rapturously blue and keyless heat

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