This is an improv post of "From the Porch" by John Koethe. I found myself intrigued by the first three lines and the blatant imagery from them. That's what I wanted to improv.
The square was bright with Christmas lights, and not too far from the highway.
The house was five miles from the school, and three from the gas station. To
my rights, there's a lake that looks almost brown from rainwater and dust. Dust
comes from somewhere, probably the airplanes going to a small landing strip
four miles from the lake. It's to the east, and comes from the west most the time.
I wonder what the road looks like from where you are. From the place you stand
in the morning, looking out the window to a forest of trees and weeks of neglect.
You smile, probably, and drink coffee, or tea, from a candy corn orange mug. I
imagine you putting on those brown shoes, the ones I had in a shoe box in my
closet until your birthday last year, and locking the door behind you as you unlock
your car and drive south, away from the Christmas lights and the house and
the school and the lake and the airstrip. Oh, and me.
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