Old Tom

He sits in a rocking chair - once
a Shaker work of art - and creaks
the days away. Sometimes, he squints
into the light that flares the trees
out of focus. At other times,
he smells the rain on cat-pissed earth
and thinks about fixing the leaks
in the porch roof. He holds a bowl
whose chipped enamel surface feels
as familiar as the globe's
pocked face and feasts on cherries, sharp
as Autumn frost, then spits the pits
out into the yard. Birds descend
and peck. An old tom blinks and yawns.