An old man thinking
   
   by Phillip Peters

He sits on a bench
at the far end of the mall
watching old men and women
cruise in endless elliptical paths.
Their white walking shoes
cushion each step as if
they protect fragile eggs…
some sort of promise for tomorrow.
He pulls his mask down over his face,
a smile materializes out of thin air,
thirty years disappear from his demeanor,
and joins them in their quest to stay alive.
After walking with a purpose four circuits 
he sits on the bench again;
neatly folds the smile into a small blue kerchief,
puts it in his pocket for another day.
He stands and begins to walk away, 
a slow shuffle, back bent, nearly invisible.  
At the door he looks back and
sees young men and women parade
back and forth with cell phones
attached to ears with the Velcro of progress
and fingers pound out secret codes
on tiny keyboards.  Outside he pats his pocket
just enough to curl the corner of his lip.