Tonight he sits on
the porch, working dirt
from beneath his
fingernails. In
the yard fragile
shadows of trees
fall across the dead
grass. Is it so hard
growing old, watching
the large hand inch closer
to the small one, the dog
chase a familiar
scent, the tomatoes
ripen? He waves
to a neighbor before
the screen door
shuts the world
behind him.
It is late. He walks
to the bathroom
in little remaining
light, stands
quiet at the tub
where years before
she drank
coffee and read,
her breasts soft
as the water
that rose to meet them.
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