Astride the engine,
he rounded the corner,
the putt-putt just enough
to keep it turning over.
Squinting into the sun,
a cigarette gripped in tight smile
and a rag tied round his scalp,
he held out his hand
in a half-wave,
recognizing his audience
as he passed by.
Pedestrian, I,
the jangle of keys
against thigh,
loose pocket,
every step just far enough forward
to keep from falling over.
Squinting into the sun,
my graying head uncovered,
I returned a half-smile.
Strangers but for this,
we are two of a kind.
He rides on wheels,
I on the soles of my shoes.
Too old to be boys,
too young to stay still.
But when we go,
we will go easy.
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