‘Now’ is only time for her.
There is enough grain for porridge,
just for now, just for three,
her eyes reveal no prospects of tomorrow,
her thin wiry hands pumping the stove,
intermittent cough visiting her,
those squirrels jump over the shed,
there are convenient gaps, both for the
squirrel and rats to exchange interplay
in the thatched roof, sunbeams too pass
through as a matter of fact,
the sick nonagenarian,
sits up on the sinking cot, dirty pillow,
the third inmate, the white cat, fondly
licks the plate of porridge,
the grand old woman with a porridge
reaches the old man, looks up,
near the threshold, Now is hers,
she admits, nothing about tomorrow.
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