O, you sly thing! Scooting up to me with cane and grace

you spoke, hushed mumbled mutterings, 

you spoke of the Dalai Lama, and how you almost

went to Manitoba to dance ballet, but your mother said no.

This was back in the sixties, as you say, and times have changed

‘cause today we’re waiting for the bus

and your slippers are boots coated in salt and snowy slush.

Supplements, and oysters with relish and lettuce from the place down the street,

chardonnay too, and warm water with lemon for breakfast—

this is what you wish to tell your younger self

but that’s senseless so you tell me instead,

and we gab like ladies at tea.

O, look at you and me!

We gab like ladies at tea as I help you board the bus,

my arm under yours, and we could dance like this if

it was the sixties and we hadn’t just met today.

Traffic light disco ball, with car horns for a beat,

I’ll spin, spin, spin you to your seat

while you tell me all of the things no one else knows—

the struggle of getting ready, and the grudges you hold.

Squeeze wrinkled fingers around a yellow bar and

speak of that deja vu carried clearly on your face.

Pat me on the arm and lean in close to say

you would still dance like you did as a teen

if it weren’t for that long gone ghost.

You dogged old thing!

Run, and live and let live,

you grin and complain about aches and pains.

Cliche, cliche, it is how it is.