Seven feet are nestled comfortably in crevices found many times before. The largest, four claw-and-ball paws beneath an armless oak chair, press into his cherished rug, a dark oriental. Mr. Morvin’s own bare swollen feet have already carved aside a few fibers so as to settle in for the night, much how a dog paces before finally lowering head to pillow for evening’s rest. In the crook of his lap, awkwardly assemblaged, Mr. Morvin holds—gingerly—a cracked ceramic bowl, whose foot he studies without regard for the muffled chirping of lacquer against itself from the makeshift windchime out front. Once handsome, now the doric columns’ paint strips like a lily bowing under dewdrops; and just so, on that yellowed armchair, one leg akilter, bows the praying, gnarled elm, the browed arch of his scapulae eclipsing that of an unseen urn. As if held barely upright by his elastic overalls, Mr. Morvin peers over a thin fabric measuring tape wrapped around the circumference of the bowl’s bottom, takes note onto a sparse, neat diagram on the table beside him, and smiles softly.
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