"The Old Country House" by Patty MgBodile

The whitewashed ledge at the end of the porch was painted
With a laziness that would make Tom Sawyer proud.

A faded young woman with frayed, peroxide-yellow hair languished on that ledge,
Her legs brushing up against the knee-high sledge weeds.
Her name was Billie Mae or Peggy Sue—
Either way, folks had been calling her “Baby” since she was four.
Back then, she used to do up her hair and make up her face
Just so she could perch up on that porch ledge,
Perch right up—straighter than a china doll—for people to watch as they passed by.

Behind her, a warped blue porch door clapped open and shut in the wind gust.
If you stared long enough, you could see that one side was painted
Brighter than the other
As if someone had done a first coat of paint all the way and had stopped
Halfway in the middle of the second.
The door would always creak after a rainstorm and would never close right—
If you were lucky enough to get it closed at all.

An old, rotting post-pillar drooped under the weight of the sagging old house.
When people used to sit on the porch on hot summer nights,
Drinking cola and having a grand old time,
they would pick at the grape vines that grew
 On the pillar as they gazed at the stars.
There are no grape vines nowadays…

Now the tired old house leans and slumps to one side
Like a solider on a crutch and a wooden peg that
Hides the stump of a leg
Blown off in battle long ago.