Your soil is only rocks and glass from the broken window and its cement sill. The wild plants are dusty, shriveled, and dry. Only a few mint leaves are on the ground. The three stray cats nibble on the catnip and the squirrels cling to the bird feeder. Suddenly, the old poet opens the screechy screen door and rattles the plastic dirty bowl of dry, tasteless pellets and slowly bends down and places it on the cracked brick path that leads to the sturdy cement gray, paint scratched and peeled doorstep. The cats gather around and crunch until they have their fill and it's dawn.