Poetry
Ole Men Waddling
A pressed khaki parade
I drove through the village
famed for its baseball hall
sprung from April Showers
the May “don’t park on my lawn”
signs of summer appear
Elder man in the village uniform
dark polo loose at the waist of belted
crisp khaki pants waddles across the street
angry glare beckons, “I dare you — hit me.”
Big smiling dog darts out
from behind parked cars
dragging another ole waddler with
used to be strong arms
toward the hood of my car.
Pound the brake squeal
Frightened dog and waddler
alike skulk away embarrassed
At the stop light three ole waddlers
cross paths, hitch in their giddy-ups
not one acknowledging others
as their lives intersect at the yellow light.
I look around wondering where youth has gone
Where are all the women who ironed the khakis?
Perhaps the glowering faces aren’t pain manifest
of needed hip…
