April 29, 2012
The couple
about eighty-five years
under their belt
He scuffled onto the patio
and she hobbled behind

Each hair
stitched to their scalps
by shades
of moon-pulled silver

They wore the waltz
like an old pair of jeans
permanently rutted behind the knee
threadbare at the heel
as mountain air
under the gait
of countless soles

The paths of their traverse
mapped on leathery cheeks
each crease
cataloguing their steps
the peaks
the valleys
the oceans vast
the paths they've worn
in desert grime

The young haven't been
as far -
Haven't been "there"
Haven't "done that"

their maps appear
less trod

But the old-
The old leave the roads
so that maybe
the young
won't get

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