Sometimes We Stay Outside

Sometimes we stay outside

on your front steps.

It’s peaceful there.

There are no cars  

or stomping feet.

There are no dishes 

or angry faces. 

It’s rather nice I say

but you don’t look too happy. 

You just sit on the step,

third one up to my left, 

and something in the horizon holds your gaze.

It’s the same way a child holds a butterfly,

gently but firmly 

so the bug doesn’t wiggle too much. 

I’ve never commented on it. 

I let you have your horizon 

or the horizon have you,

whichever way you put it. 

I’m fine just to stand here and daydream. 

You stay under the awning,

especially when it rains. 

I like the rain.

I go out and play

but you don’t play. 

You say, “My mom hates it when I track in mud”

I guess that’s true,

but I’d never seen you track in mud. 

One day I told him

sometimes you just got to play.

To live a little. 

What’s life if you're not living?

Or I thought about telling him that.

I don’t really remember.

It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes I’ll dance in the rain, 

sometimes I’ll jump in the mud. 

It doesn’t bother me; 

I’m okay with being yelled at

but you never have been. 

Maybe that’s why you stay under the awning 

and sit on the step,

third one up to my left. 

Yeah, 

that’s probably why. 

You cried one time, 

I still don’t know why. 

Maybe it was because you didn’t sing in the rain. 

But your tears quickly dried,

as the sun made the horizon its grave.

So you went inside 

and I stayed out, 

standing on your front steps 

just beyond the awning. 

I heard a glass break

so I went home 

and fell asleep. 

I was back the next day 

but you weren’t there. 

Something about a new job 

or a new place. 

I don’t fully remember, 

but you never again sat 

on the third step 

the one up to my left 

under the awning. 

I went home sad. 

My sitting friend was gone 

and I had stories to tell,

and he had horizons to look at. 

He should have sung in the rain

at least one time,

maybe then he wouldn’t have gone to some other place.