Flesh

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, 

still alive,

still together.