The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead leaves
Raked in piles, the wicker swing
Creaking. Across the lots
A phonograph is playing Ja-Da.
An orange moon. I see the lives
Of neighbors, mapped and marred
Like all the wars ahead, and R.
Insane, B. with his throat cut,
Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.
I did not know them then.
My airedale scratches at the door.
And I am back from seeing Milton Sills
And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old.
The porchlight coming on again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
This man writes like none other. It's breath-taking how he effortlessly places his reader not only beside him on that porch but also in his mind and then we are him in the aura of that porch light in 1926