wilted armchair waits in the corner

where an old man would plant himself

like a rusty weed in knit soil

eyes narrowed, looking to the sun

like yellow leaves turning

the morning paper was sunrise

and sunset was steaming tea

in clay pot, digging out biscuits 

from foil like bulbs from dirt

white wisps of radish-heads his hair

and his wrinkled coat well-specked

with loose threads like eyes on spuds

tan skin thin and molting

a smell of rest and dust, of

rotting apple and tree bark 

torn from his roots, ungrown

empty hole in the ground 

only a seed left to sit

and settle among

the old threads.