A Love Note to My Dilapidated Front Porch

Hey, you. Yeah, you, with your exposed cinder-block foundation and twisty wrought iron balustrade. Thank you for letting me sit on you. You’ve provided me with a welcome escape from the living room throughout this global pandemic.

You make a superb platform to sit upon to cast disapproving stares at passersby and an excellent barrier to that guy who walks by everyday around 5 pm and shoots me the finger guns, “Eyyyy. Ya got the best seat in the house.” Thank you, sir. I don’t need to be told.

When I stumble home and collapse on you — letting out a chimeric hiccup-belch — your concrete steps are there to catch me, providing my wobbly legs the necessary reprieve from traversing the neighborhood with a road soda in hand, binge-listening to podcasts. I’m sure the neighbors might think I have a problem as they have floor seats to my nightly concerts brought to you by a Craigslist banjo and cheap Canadian beer. But you accept me, flaws and all. By the way, I’ll make sure to pick up those empties tonight.

And it doesn’t matter that every terrier breed in the zip code stops to take a dump in your front yard, you’re pretty enough on your own — even though your mustache is quite often covered in poop. You don’t need all the fanfare like that of the neighboring McRowhouses, with their knock-off Grecian columns and ostentatious landscaping that all but shout, “we are paid a livable wage.”

And what some — especially our downhill neighbor — might call a design flaw veering on an OSHA code violation, I consider to be one of your best, most striking features, which is your slanted roof, the crown you never take off. With its natural vegetation and capacity for pooling water, you’ve done a good thing for that young family of squirrels who have taken residence atop you. I know there are detractors like our more aggressive adjacents who come by to call you an eyesore, using words like sag and crack. But as long as I’m on this lease, I’ll be here to reassure you and gently push your hanging gutter back onto your fascia.

These past few months, I’ve felt our bond seal like your weatherproof surface. I don’t think the old Italian couple across the street has noticed yet that I’ve taken to spending time with you in my underwear. Or if the religious fanatics next to them caught me sleeping outside on you last Saturday — you’ve become a natural extension of the bedroom. If the neighbors don’t like it, they don’t have to look.

I was going to wait until tonight, but I got you something pretty. I picked up those outdoor throw pillows I was telling you about that I saw at Big Lots on clearance. They’ll bring out the rusty hue of your balusters.

Your big façade makes our house buxom, and I’m sure you are the object of every yuppy neighbor’s envy. I can’t wait to sit on you tonight — pants optional — and give the neighbors, those less fortunate forced to quarantine with children, babies, and significant others, something to talk about. It’s you and me against the neighborhood, and those terriers who can’t stop shitting themselves.

Love always,

Your perched paramour

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