I’ve been working on her porch
for days now.

Staining the insides
of our foundation. She has
three beams
that keep the entire thing standing.
I lean against them
when the sun hits.
She can see me
from inside her living room.
Like just another piece of wood
in a long line of guard rails.

It’s four in the afternoon.
She brings me sun tea
with extra ice.
We pretend to talk about my progress.
I’ve got a stripe of white paint
on the inside of my forearm.
Sharp edges have poked holes in my denim
and cotton.
She looks like petunias to me.

And another day
I use nails to keep it together.
Hammering in the idea
that this is only temporary.
That when I stand up straight
and plant two feet
on solid ground
I will have built something for someone else.

And even after I’m done
I keep working on it.
Trying to make something perfect
out of old plywood and brush strokes.
Sweating through my clothes.
Making pools of exhaustion
on her front steps.
I built her a porch
to drink lemonade on.

She never invited me inside.