On Growing Old Upon A Breeze Of Dignity Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

They sit together... back to back
at Briar Hills Park, on a metal bench
like bookends,
bristling from the icy steel
once cloaked by the warmth
of oak, long removed,
several genre's ago.

And they enjoy each others silence,
though every now and then-
one turns and taps the other,
pointing to faces in the clouds
non-sequiturs, but not for them,
much skinny for their scuttlebutt,
when the sun goes down
and there's nothing much
to talk about...inside.

And the other one always nods,
as if he saw it all first hand,
then both return to their worlds;
no mistake, their best of friends
loyal comrades decades in true,
living by their own polished styles.

And they couldn't be more content as friends,
understanding, allaying each other's quirks,
keeping each others minds aroused,
when cognition has its quavering moments,
like when the breeze is too relaxing,
until the void is broken by one for the other,
another arm tap and a new set of clouds,
and tell-tales they've told many times,
though each time details stretch like rubber.

Late afternoon, and the clouds speak to them,
time to walk back to their home, close the day.
Isn't it Turkey and biscuits tonight?
'No old man...that was Thanksgiving Day''
A wink to the other and they both have their laugh.
They've already called out for pizza-
delivery to their first floor side window,
It was meatloaf night at the Home,
so there were two missing faces
at Briar Park Hills dining hall;
faces that were watching that Fortune Wheel show
while dining with Vanna and fresh pepperoni!

Growing old is not so bad, I guess,
so long as you're aware that you are,
and have someone there to share the experience-
while it lasts...with a breeze of dignity.



©Frank James Ryan Jr/FjR
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