by Anna Swisher

A man sits on a white wicker couch,
Which his wife picked out
One hand of warped and flaking branches grasping another
Next to a mutt he never wanted but has loved like a child
On a porch he built himself years ago
Stained, but never painted
Half smiling,
Unfortunately aware of the photo being taken
Wearing his uniform of grease, sweat, and sawdust
Denim jeans whose fabric is struggling to cling together at the knees
Tan boots with too long of laces
Tied twice
Carrying the mud and dust of several years wear
Not resting, merely taking a break 
From waking up early on the weekends to bake cinnamon rolls
From leaving the television on and walking away
From battling the lawn mower for the seventy fourth time
From talking on the cellphone while he drives
From forgetting to balance his checkbook
From visiting his sick father after work
From playing video games with his children
So that he may drink his Nantucket blend coffee
With cream and a spoonful of sugar
And ask his wife how her day has been.