The Old Man at the Mall Takes His Daily Walk by Richard Luftig

He’s been at this for over an hour.
Up one wing, down the other,
like a pace car waiting
for the green flag to drop.

But it never does as he shuffles
so slowly that the tread of his sneakers
hardly leaves the smooth floor.
Head slightly bowed, hands clasped
behind his back, a far-away look
in his eyes as if he is watching
for something only he can see.

He keeps to the far-right lane,
the slow one, his shoulder
almost against the walls
of the stores, paying no attention
to the newer, sleeker models,
that lap him for the third or fourth time:

The guy with the $200 running shoes,
so new they squeak against the smooth
tiles as if they need to be oiled,
or the fastest one in the field
who looks at his wristwatch
to view his speed and uses
two fingertips to check the rpms in his neck.

I follow the old man,
but keep a respectful distance,
and wonder what he thinks about:
the wife, now passed, who would take
these walks with him hand in hand,
oblivious to their blocking faster traffic
as they spoke, laughed, remembered.

Maybe the grown and married daughter
in some distant drive-through state
who visits so infrequently
but who he sees each night in his dreams.

Perhaps he remembers the girl in their village
in China a lifetime ago who as teenagers
would secretly meet and kiss
by the lotus pond until they were forced
to steal away in the night on a ship
to America in order to escape
their arranged marriages.

And now, pushing ninety-
years not miles per hour,
he dreams himself as some dignitary
in the local New Year’s Day parade,
riding in a vintage convertible,
top down, still holding hands
with his bride who never ages,

the car moving so slowly
you hardly would know
that the odometer inches
forward, and they not paying
attention to where they are headed
as they savor every moment,
their own motors idling.