Senescence

A Poem by flowetry07

Do you see him?

Hardly anyone does. In this mass of youthful bodies rushing this way and that,

The man hobbling on the sidewalk struggling to balance his bags in his comfortable looking (but judging from the stance of his walk) not so comfortable orthopedic shoes.

He attempts to catch the nearly full bus before he is either trampled or the door unfolds and squeaks shut in his face.

His clothes though not tattered or soiled no longer fit his frame properly. They billow around his hunched shoulders and slightly bent knees adding to his cloak of invisibility

His dark eyes seem to shrink deep into his face behind a constant watery mist.

They are trained eyes, experienced eyes, pushed past their freshness state.

Those eyes have read countless books, screened over five-thousand movies and sized up too many football games.

The hands. His hands, now gnarled trembling and fragile once carried boxes half of his body weight but now bear the difficulty of one five pound plastic handled Wal-mart bag.

They were once his livelihood, used for manual labor, a firm handshake, to caress the hand of his lover. Now they grip tightly to the curved knob of his walking stick.

For him and him alone it seems, they are still of use.

His arms were once sinewy, not too muscular. Not too scrawny either. They were perfect.

For giving toss-in-the-air turns to each of this three children, for changing the light-bulbs in the far reaching ceiling fans of his family’s home, for hoisting himself into a tree and judging its strength for a tree-house.

Now the arms hang feebly at his sides and he protects them by leaning mostly on his walking stick.

Can you see him?

He makes it onto the bus. The driver lets down the step for him but he doesn’t lift his head. He pays his fare and trots down the aisle in search of a seat. No one in the front open-ended seating area designated for the elderly or those with disabilities scoots an inch.

The driver takes off with a lurch and the man loses his footing.

His walking stick slips away at an odd angle from his stance.

Someone slides over, about three centimeters to the right and he falls rather than sits between two teenagers,

Their faces glued to tiny screens on boxes in their strong hands.

They don’t look up.