The Old Man

just as everything is in its place the cracked pitcher in the cellar’s window the maize porridge pot amid the verandah flowers the knife sharpener in the kitchen table’s drawer the squared clock hung slanting on the wall day after day the old man takes off the straw hat from its hook even if it’s cloudy pulls it down on his head with both hands opens the street gate till it hits the wall upright like a thistle he looks down the road under the hat colored like an autumn sun it gets warmer his face furrows overturn a smile as if the moist earth sliced by the old times plough under the steps of sons grandsons and great-grandsons