In a diner, making for
the coffee stand,
I paused for an aged woman,
as fragile as a shell.

Our paths wove together
in a stitchery of chance.
She would have given way
as rough custom demands:

old age bows to youth, female to male,
height and impatience trumping
courtesy and care.

"Thank you for noticing me,"
and her eyes glinted a little.
"When you're my age you are

In the counting world
youth rises and whirls,
broad strokes and flash
springing off the feet.

Old age lifts memory
to its ear, a conch shell's
far-off ocean calling
faintly from within.

One thought on “Sign

  1. This makes me think of my grandmother toward the end of her days, hunched and so much smaller than her 6 foot frame of my youth. She’d always love when someone opened a door for her or let her sit. To be seen-that’s what we all want.

    Liked by 1 person

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