Dad is eighty-eight, walks with small steps,
and between the kitchen and the den
often leans against the counter or a chair
or perhaps the memory of stronger legs –
might mutter to no one in particular
that everything is fine. I picture him
on his way to a lighter longer stride,
to a weightless happiness where his wife
of almost sixty years can dismiss him again,
sneer at his yellow socks and matching shirt
but still look at him with a shadow of desire
trapped in her eyes when she sees him
in that plaid sport coat that has him looking
like the most handsome man she’s ever seen.