A missed bus and a wet coat become a night journey held by a direct question, waiting headlights and a porch bulb warm in the morning.
Listen
A recorded reading of “Porch Light, Kept On”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
At two, the last bus passes without slowing. I call you and say I'm fine. You ask which corner. Not why. Your headlights find the stop after the road markings vanish. At home, you wait while I find the key in my wet coat. In the morning, the porch bulb is still warm.
Reader response
28 reader responses
Tap one signal for Porch Light, Kept On. It records a page-level response without asking for email or account details, and helps prioritize future revisions without interrupting the reading flow.
Choose one option to save feedback.
Discussion
Comment on Porch Light, Kept On. Your email is used to send a verification link and is not shown publicly. Comments may appear after verification and review.
A quiet urban poem about a blue-lit fourth-floor window, an unspoken signal and the small reassurance of staying visible.
A closing signal poem about rain in the wires, imperfect messages and knowing that a human answer travelled.
A walking poem about taking the long way round, deleting a message and allowing one remaining word to cross.
No published comments yet.