-when the very old man walks-

                    the 2nd poem

he walks on brittle bone; short,

shuffling steps, but quickly paced, the hollow

caps of his knees bend awkwardly

adding a slight springing motion along the way.

his backbone is curved forward, his shoulders

compress the space between themselves

seeming to repel one another like magnetic

poles negative-to-negative, and his head

is held upright, straining under its own weight.

he won't have a dog alongside.

this is an observational phenomenon:

you will never see a very old man walking a dog.

his walk is solitary in its nature, and besides,

small dogs are quirky-paced, and large dogs 

easily overpower him.

the very old man walks to a place, a shortlist

in his thoughts which serves to remind him

he hasn't long to go before he's called to supper.

nothing, it seems draws his attention, not even

the magnificent XtraMart across the street, perfumed

in (near) non-toxic household interior fragrances,

test-sprayed in the aisles for a quick sniff to decision,

revolving in its infinite 24 hour cycle, glistening

florescence across a silver-glazed atmosphere

the way heaven displays itself to the congregants.

see him walking, swaying his arms which bend

at the elbows, and stay that way, the blood-

borne left-right-left cadence; studied, disturbing, inevitable..