The doorbell rings
At least once a week.
I dash down the slippery stairs
To yank open the great green door
Rustling the tree with the plastic leaves.

There is a small army
Of smiling faces
Expectant faces
Basking in the twilight
Of anticipation.

We sit
Perched under the porch light,
Feel the cool concrete underneath our fingertips.
The cobwebs in the corners
Eavesdrop on our conversations.

Secrets soar from whispered mouths
Like the mosquitoes
That nip at our skin.
We sway back and forth,
Rubbing leaves in between our fingertips

The sun slips down
And the birds stop to chirp.
We signal hushed good-byes
And tiptoe
Past the porch light.

Days slip away.
The air turns cold.
And the doorbell doesn’t ring
As often as it used to
In the summertime.