In unison, we walk into the store.
Though we are strangers, we nod to one another.
The nod speaks: “I see you. I’m old, too.”
No one asks for our wisdom.
We walk the aisles, invisible, benign:
We are the elders here.
When we leave,
I fall into step behind him.
I take in the long gray hair, the pony-tail.
I take in the faded jeans, a limp:
a grief-filled resignation in his gait.
I know what he’s thinking:
“I’ve got ’em fooled: I’m young.”
meb/4/2019
TheWisdomYears.org 