She sits there on the creaky stool
Aloof of all that’s going ‘round
So much present, her worn being
Yet silent amid the day’s sound.
He sits high on the veranda railing
Excited eyes darting ‘round,
Flush of vigor on his face
Freshness and spirit of youth abound.
She sits amid the hustle and bustle
But oblivious of what matters ‘nymore
She sees but no more comprehends
What all the people move round for.
He jumps off the ledge, his mother yells,
Landing light with feline grace,
Face flushed, and a gleam in his eyes,
Akin to a cub with its maiden prize.
Senility having taken its toll,
She hardly learns what unfolds.
Sans the senses five, with quaky limbs,
She awaits what, she knows no more.
His muscled pride he enhances,
With dips and dives and groaning crunches;
Scrutinizing his mirror image often,
Thinking of how the girls will fall.
The bright red orb that sails the sky,
Where she sits, from left to right;
The glint of crimson at her right eye corner,
Signals the end of her wait tonight.
He comes back home in a huff and a puff,
Casting his shoes, tossing the ball,
Sweaty and soiled but chatters, excited
Of great exploits at the goal
Thus ends my day of observation,
One ripe with fresh expectations;
The other waits, but for some abstract,
One being nineteen, other ninety old.
Where I stand, I can see them both,
Forming the bracket of life, my own.
At one past thirty, now I must see,
What this vision bodes for me.
