the ninth decade

they are old.
older than you
by decades.
her hair is black
as a baby seal's
and he is wearing glasses
thick like bottles
they waddle like pink
bowling pins
about to fall
laughing in unison
at something
they just said,
or ate, or struggle
to remember.
she rubs his head
like a favorite
doll. he blushes
and shakes his jowl,
putting up a finger
to correct a point
he almost made.
they want you to stay
forever, or at least
through lunch.
they have things to
do, places yet to be,
on cruise control
and happy in their
ninth decade.