Day 340

An old man rocks back and forth.
He is sitting on what were
the steps to his house,
the house he lived in as a boy,
the house where his children lived,
the house where, years ago, his wife died.
He sits, his hand on his gray cat
who, unfathomably, has survived
the bombing his grown sons
and grandchildren did not.
The cat looks at him, understands
the man has no words for her,
that he needs her, that he 
will do what he can to find
food for her, a place
for both of them to sleep.