When we are Seventy.

In the park we used to drive past
an old man sits.
His walking stick rests on his knees
and he just stares.
Walking past, a lady
with a rounded back and grey hair
stops in front of him.
They are alone,
and she moves towards him,
touches his shoulder with hands
veined like the wriggle of worms.
They are somewhere else,
locked in a stare,
young again,
and the tenderness in her hand
overwhelms him.
They embrace like old lovers.

When we are seventy,
would you let me touch your shoulder,
or would I walk on,
distant recognition with a slight smile,
reminded of a need
and desire for help
that I deserted?

The old man smiles.
They part,
the intense closeness of their youth
forgotten.