OLD MEN AT THE MALL

They do time on benches in shopping malls,
empty hands hanging between arthritic knees
or clasped on plaid flannel paunches, dim
memories mocking, faded eyes lusting
after young mothers in tight blue jeans
pushing babies in strollers, dragging toddlers
by one hand into bright caverns where

white haired women in polyester
pants suits paw through sales bins
until it’s time to search the benches at the
gurgling fountains and jewelry islands for
husbands in baseball caps who heave
themselves to their feet and shuffle off
to join hordes of

old men and old women and bored
young mothers with cranky children dragging
french fries through ketchup puddles, chewing
greasy hamburgers, sipping sugary drinks through

bent straws. Watching the passing
parade on the edge of their vision,
knowing they are destined to do more time
on their benches, old men reach
into yesterday for memories to dull the
ache that is the disappearing shadow of
themselves.