First home
Sarah Johnson
Steps with blunt edges
that don’t lead up or
down, stolidly squat.
The dog arthritic
splayed on glassy
porch, a liver spot
welcome of tongue
and drool. Fudge in the
freezer never sets
while hasty fingers
pluck at edges. Grime
everywhere, my
father busy or
asleep, the rising
tide.
Other work by Sarah Johnson - Days
