Beneath his legs
Where no one seems to see
But do perhaps smell
The fine spun fur is knitted tight.
Egg sacks on vine
They pull on tender skin
In daily kitchen dance
Step here, back there, eyes on bowl.
Weak knees, hips shake
Death calls but is not heard
Tangled fur and filth
Has gone unbrushed and nails untrimmed.
This old soul stands
Eyes fixed on mine and black
Patient while watered soap
Warm air, clipped hair, returns his youth.