There Is a Man

Who sits in the folding chair

on my front porch and watches

the dog play in the predawn light.

The light breeze blows the November

air across his bare skin.

It rustles through the leaves

of the grand old oaks

and throws acorns at him,

dinging them off the metal porch roof.

He smiles and sips his coffee

and calls the dog to go inside

to sit under his warm blanket.

I believe I know this man,

somedays he is a poet,

sometimes a cook,

and somedays just an old man

waiting on the chariot to carry him home.