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
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