Cacti are watered. Pink and white blossoms dotted on the plants. They sit in the sunlight.

Chamber music plays on the radio. He listens while sitting on his bed, which has peaks and valleys. A folded jacket is used for a pillow.

He lights a cigarette and stirs instant coffee in his cup, which reads, BEST DAD EVER. His ex-wife gave it to him when they were expecting years ago; never count your chickens before they hatch.

The music on the public radio station has switched now to jazz. Bop jazz, to be precise. The old man looks out his window down onto the streets where traffic is starting to flow on 24th Street. Cars and cabs turning the corner at 8th Avenue. He stands there just looking up at the sun, which has winked at him. He tells the cacti to soak it in.

Take it whenever you can get it, he says. The forecast for the day is cloudy with precipitation, he tells his two children in clay pots. Take it when you can get it.