Barely a hand‚
just bones and veins
fit into flesh like a glove
four sizes too big‚
reaches for an aged tea kettle
asleep on the end table.

Shaking, not trusting his own strength,
the precious hot fluid pours
with his tongue sticking out like this is some sort of skill,
out the spout and fills a foot bowl
which smiles now.

And in come the feet,
And out damn the heat
and in slowly,
like setting a baby down to sleep.

With a sigh and a swallow
his neck crickets crack;
his head sets back
resting on an exhausted pillow
his own head print left indented on its surface,
they greet as friends.

His chair is a cloud
and it showers now,
falling apart like the man who is killing it:
fraying fabric and sagging cushions
hang down like a dog with its tail between its legs,
crying shamefully:
no pride at all.

But that is okay because this is still the same chair,
a friend and a home
for a man of equal value.