He is sick. His kidneys impede
him, worse, they poison him.
But still on warm afternoons he sits
on the porch looking out at the flesh
of olive trees, of humming birds and drifts
into the tenderness of our wind chimes.
He still is flesh. He has warm hands
that can hold things, an iced tea.
On his lap Esquire magazine.
He is still flesh. Alert, thirsty,
he has hunger.
Body and soul sit on the porch,