Barely a hand

just bones and veins

fit into paper thin skin 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 to hold it up.

But that is okay because this is still the same chair

a friend and a comfort

for a man of equal value.