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.