-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 in their movements,

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, glistening

in the way Heaven is perceived by the local congregation,

perfumed in (near) non-toxic household interior fragrances,

test-sprayed in the eyes of shackled animals, and

scented for a quick sniff to a firm decision.

see the old man walking, swaying his arms which bend

swaying at the elbows, the bone-weary 

left-right-left cadence,–– studied, disturbing, inevitable..