the sunset

she takes your hand
and says slowly, but
loudly so that you can
hear out of your
good ear, honey, I don't
think this is working
out. you may be
too old for me,
what? you
say. yes, it is cold
out. you tap a young
man in a green apron
going by with
your cane and tell
him to close the door,
what are we living
in a barn here?
she leans over and
wipes your chin
of coffee and brushes
your sweater of scone
crumbs. we are just
in different places
now, she says. look at
you, bald and wrinkly.
you are almost eligible
for social security
and I'm in the prime
of my adult life.
finally, you get
the gist of what she's
trying to tell you.
she's dumping you for
a younger man.
a man with a bright
future, someone that
can give her the business
three times a day
without prescription
drugs. oh well, you say,
checking your pulse
and coughing. are you
okay, she says. I mean
we can still be friends.
I'm fine, I'm fine.
just a head cold,
congestion, it'll clear
up. i'll be fine.
no, she says, are you okay
with what I just told
you, about you and me
not seeing one another
any more? oh that. yeah.
sure, almost forgot.
hey, can you help me
up, there's a matinee
I want to see down at
the bijou. it's an old movie.
I just love that henry
fonda guy.