An Old Man Visits The Urologist

I stare at the man inching across the linoleum tile,
gingerly placing his walker down with each baby step,
wondering if I’ll ever be that old.
My lips curled in hiding teeth I do not have,
my back with a lump like quasi moto.
I half hope that old man will throw his walker aside
and start dancing like the Six Flags man,
his age not hampering his ability to get down.
Get down like he used to,
to Chubby Checker and Jerry Lee Lewis
with Barbara, Nancy or Phyllis.
And he would drive them in his Chevy
and Barbara or Nancy or Phyllis
would give him a kiss on the cheek
and it would be swell.
As he goes down the stairs, holding his son’s hand,
hush puppies keeping silent as he descends,
he recalls the loafers he wore when he was young
and the sound they made
ringing out in the hallway of his high school
as he ran to class with a late pass.
And they were loud, oh so loud.